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Lee Chauvin's 



SELF-INSTRUCTOR 



IN 



jKeadiiij and Sp^in^ 



"You will make it your business, your study, and your pleasure 
to speak well, if you think right." 

Lord Chesterfield. 

~ — 

APR 9 1884 1 

SAN FRANCISCO: 

Cubery & Company, Steam Book and Job Printers, 

415 Market Street, below First. 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 
1884, by F. Lee Chauvin, in the Office of the Librarian 
of Congress, at Washington. 



INDEX 



PAGE. 

Author's Note 5 

Introductory Essay 7 

Breathing 13 

Articulation 18 

The Pure Tone 25 

The Orotund Quality of Voice 27 

To Remedy a Nasal Tone 28 

The Tremor Quality of Voice 29 

Force 30 

Stress 32 

Pitch — Modulation of Voice 34 

Inflexions 39 

Emphasis 45 

Pauses 47 

Rate 50 

The Guttural Quality of Voice 51 

Personation — Expression 5 1 

Gesture 52 

SELECTIO N S. 

Hamlet's Advice to the Players Shahsfeare. 55 

The Pilot J. B. Govgh. 56 

The Story of Richard Doubledick ( abridged ) Dickens, 57 

The Black Regiment G. H. Boher. 65 

The Tell-Tale Heart E. A . Poe. 67 

Drunkards not all Brutes J. B. Govgh. 73 

The Young Gray Head Mrs. C. Sovthey. 75 

Bound to Have It Anon, 79 

Rest Father Ryan. 81 

The Benediction F. Cofipee, 82 

You put no Flowers on my Papa's Grave C. E. L. Holmes. 86 

Patriotism 7. T.F. Meagher. S7 

Examples for Ireland T.F. Meagher. S9 



4 INDEX. 

PAGE. 

McLaine's Child Charles Mackay, 9 1 

The Portrait Owen Meredith, 94 

The Deacon's Story N.S. Emerson, 97 

Asleep at the Switch Geor^ e Hoey, 100 

Phaidrick Crohoore Anon. 104 

Aux Italiens R. Bulzver Lytton. 107 

Money Musk Benj. F. Taylor, 1 1 1 

Tom's Little Stu r Fanny Foster. 1 13 

The Rosary of mv Years Father Ryan. 1 19 

The Little Hatchet Story Burlington ffawkeye. 120 

How Tom Sawyer got his Fence Whitewashed \fark Twain. 124 

Keenan's Charge Lathrop. 127 

The Pride of Battery B F. H. Gassaway. 130 

A Rum Ruined Home J. B. Gough. 132 

A Visit to a Drunkard J. B. Gough. 133 

The Little Hero Anon. 136 

The Blacksmith's Story Frank Olive. 140 

Mr. Orator Puff Thomas Moore, 144 



AUTHOR'S NOTE, 



FIKST EDITION. 



The author has labored in this little volume to present 
a practical, systematic work on the art of Heading and 
Speaking, in a simple, easily understood style, free from 
verbiage, and adapted to the wants of those who have 
not the facilities for instruction under a professional 
teacher, and who desire to pursue a course of study in 
the quiet of their homes. This book embraces the per- 
sonal observations of an extensive practical experience 
of a teacher and professional reader. It has also been 
a study to incorporate within these pages the very best 
things from the best writers, and introduce a series of 
lessons in Elocution that, it is hoped, will be utilized 
with good results. 

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the works of 
Ernest Legouve, Murdock and Russell, Potter, Vanden- 
hoff, Griffith, Wilson, Monroe, "Watson, and Dr. Rush, for 
valuable aid in the preparation of this volume. 

It is the aim of this work to impress students of elocu- 
tion that rules of art in Reading and Speaking are rules 
of nature — nature properly expressed — and that, without 
an appreciation of the spirit of the rule, the effort will be 



b AUTHOR'S NOTE. 

dull and meaningless. The practical part of this volume 
contains selections that have been tested before audi- 
ences of varied description, and are prose and poetry 
readings of a character to reach the popular heart. It is 
earnestly hoped that those who read these pages will 
find in them a guide and teacher that will give every 
desired aid and encouragement in the acquisition of an 
attractive and delightful art. 

FBANK LEE CHAUVIN. 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY, 



FRANK LEE CHAUVIN. 



In our democratic land, where street corners are often 
improvised rostrums, the study of oratory is not pursued 
with the scholarly finish and detail of those who lived 
in the old republics. In our hurry for results we some- 
times disregard rhetorical polish, and hope to win our 
vocal battles by "natural gifts." 

" I speak in my natural way when the inspiration 
comes," said a professional man. Had he only known 
the many crudities of his " natural way," and given his 
declamation proper culture, his auditors would have 
seen less of him, and more of his inspiration. 

A reader or speaker may possess native talent, but 
native talent without cultivation is very crude material. 
Excellence in art is not alone a gratuity from the "Di- 
vine Artist " — it is the result of work, patient, arduous 
work. 

There are many people who feel that they have no 
dramatic talent, and do not aspire to elocutionary or 
oratorical excellence, but they will certainly admit that 
they can and should learn to read intelligently. 

Elocution is not alone the privilege of the actor or 



b INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

professional man; it is an accomplishment that belongs 
to the counting-room as well as the rostrum, for it is 
business to be a good talker, and to know how to enter- 
tain is a social triumph that lends a grace and charm to 
every-day life. " He has too much elocution," said a 
critical observer, commenting on the effort of a well 
known divine. '* Too much elocution " comes from false 
training, and is very often the result of imitation. It 
may be called a wealth of sound and poverty of thought. 
" Eead as you talk, but talk well." "He who can speak 
well is a man," says a German writer; but he who speaks 
with a silly affectation and libels nature with an artificial 
delivery — what is he ? It is better to have no art than 
not enough to conceal it. 

Rules of art in reading and speaking are based on 
effective, natural talking, that goes from mind to mind — 
nature idealized, not falsified — and those who wish to 
reproduce a mental picture must make their words the 
result of feeling, of conviction, for any attempt at effect 
or pretentious vocal display may reach the ears, but 
not the hearts of the people. 

A well cultivated voice is an all-important requisite 
in the orator's art, but it must be under the control of 
thought — the mind directs, the voice acts. 

Oratory is the vocal canvas of the mind, portraying 
with varied coloring our many thoughts and feelings. 
Art does not deal with the word alone — it seeks the 
spirit of the word. To speak well, we must think 
well. Our vocal organs should receive thorough culti- 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 9 

vation, for inspiration will have a hard struggle with a 
poor vocal instrument. 

Under the guidance of a proper system the voice will 
gain purity, strength and flexibility, and reflect with 
natural expression and pleasant variation of pitch and 
quality our mental feelings, without losing its character 
or becoming simply a vocal machine. 

" Our higher notes," says Legouve " represent the cav- 
alry on the oratorical battle field, and should be reserved 
for sudden, bold attacks and triumphant charges; the 
lower notes, like artillery, are used for strength, effort, 
and the putting forth of unusual power ; but the true 
dependence of the army is the infantry. The mid- 
dle voice is our infantry. The upper and lower notes 
should be employed only when certain effects are to be 
produced. To the middle voice accord the supremacy, 
first, last, and always." 

It is the skillful management of these various degrees 
of pitch — the proper effect at the proper time— that gives 
reserve force, and indicates the man of power. " Mile 
Mars," says a French writer, " went through her part, 
requiring great action and energy, in an under tone, 
almost without a motion; every effect, every shade of 
meaning, was expressed and plainly visible. It was like 
a picture seen from a distance, or a strain of music heard 
from afar. It was a new revelation." It is hoped that 
this new revelation will be appreciated by those who 
distribute force with such reckless liberality, and do not 
know that the effect of a word is not alone dependent on 



10 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 



loudness of utterance. The word draws its inspiration 
from the heart, and is felt and understood in a look. 

An actor in a Parisian theatre, feeling somewhat ill, 
requested the manager to beg the indulgence of the au- 
dience, and he would endeavor to play his role in a sub- 
dued tone. The manager complied, and the subdued 
tone made a marked impression. The actor had un- 
consciously excelled all his previous efforts; he had 
made a new discovery in his art, that taught him to obey 
the injunction of the dramatist : 

"In the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say), 
whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget 
a temperance that may give it smoothness." 

It may not be unkind to say that if more actors were 
taken sick with such good results, the drama would be 
in a healthier condition. 

The oratorical school offers many advantages for vocal 
and mental culture, but few have been taught to any 
purpose, who have not been in most part their own 
teachers; for art is not bounded by pedantic barriers, 
nor is thought a stereotyped article. Reading and 
speaking must reflect individuality, for imitation is the 
counterfeit metal of elocution, and carries with it only 
vocal force. 

"It is one thing," says an English writer, "to resem- 
ble a great artist and another to imitate him." If we 
put the artist's thoughts and feelings in our own hearts 
they are oui^s, but if we put them in' our mouths alone 
they are counterfeit. We can build up an originality by 



INTEODUCTOEY ESSAY. 11 

study, experience and perseverance, and reach a standard 
of excellence without walking behind a favorite model. 
Booth's Hamlet is not Sullivan's, nor is Sullivan's Kich- 
elieu Barrett's. They are distinct creations, and the re- 
sult of individual thought. " To endeavor to impart to 
Cato," says Lecky, the distinctive charm of Saint Francis 
Assissi, or to Saint Francis that of Cato, would be as ab- 
surd as to endeavor to unite in a single statue the beauties 
of the Apollo and the Laocoon, or, in a single landscape, 
the beauties of the twilight and the meridian sun." To 
be in sympathy with art we must be in sympathy with 
nature, "love the beautiful, and with color, form and 
music touched to tears." We must cultivate not only 
the graces of rhetoric, but those qualities that give us 
true sentiment, for "eloquence is the best speech of 
the best soul." 



TO THE READER OR PUPIL 



The use of such words as sentential melody, discrete and 
concrete, oral-ling uals, ladia-dentals, diatotiic, semi-tonic, and 
certain physiological terms, commonly found in elocu- 
tionary works, has been purposely omitted in this vol- 
ume, and their simple meaning substituted when neces- 
sary. It will be observed that the pupil is referred to 
the practical readings for examples in illustration of the 
theory, and brief extracts are used only when of abso- 
lute importance. Not a single sentence in the theoreti- 
cal department of this volume should be ignored, for 
every line is, as it were, a stone upon stone in an elocu- 
tionary foundation. 



BREATHING, 



Voice is the result of breath, and, to speak properly, 
we must breathe properly. The basis of voice cultiva- 
tion is the management of the breath — not simply a 
knowledge of " deep breathing," but breath economy, 
when to use it, and how much to use. 

Legouve says that the reader must always be master of 
breath, no matter how he overturns other rules. It is 
often an unheeded fact that incorrect breathing is a 
serious injury to the health, and people are reminded 
that if they wish to live long they must breathe well. 
Fowler says that the breath cure is the best cure; 
and a daily practice in deep abdominal breathing is a 
panacea for all ills. Breathe through the nose, and keep 
the mouth shut during sleep, and also when awake, when 
not engaged in conversation. 

In reading or speaking draw the breath through the 
nose and mouth at the same time, for to pause every 
moment to inhale air through the nostrils would produce 
a very artificial effect, and is not at all necessary. Sleep- 
ing with the mouth open is a very injurious habit (this 
ought to be known by all, for it is by no means new 



14 BREATHING. 

information), and will result in catarrh, asthma, weak 
lungs, weak voices, and many other ills. Indian moth- 
ers teach their children to breathe through the nose, for 
they say it makes strong men and women, and gives 
power over those who breathe through the mouth. If 
the mouth cannot be kept closed during sleep, place a 
small piece of isinglass plaster on lips before retiring. 
The voice can be used to a reasonable limit without 
becoming wearied or hoarse, if the breath is properly 
managed. 

How to Beeathe. — Keep the waist free from tight 
belts, or anything of a compressing nature, that will 
prevent the muscles from working. In a word, tight 
lacing means short breath and short life. 

Effusive Beeathing. — Stand erect; expand chest by 
throwing shoulders and hips backward; — the wider the 
walls of the chest the more room for pure air. Place 
hands on abdomen, take a deep, long breath through the 
nostrils (keep the shoulders perfectly quiet), and give 
out very slowly the sound of H. Observe, by touch of 
hand, that the abdomen rises when the breath is inhaled, 
and sinks when expelled. It is effusive because the 
breathing is quiet and gentle. Inhale or draw in air 
from base of lungs. Breathing from upper part of 
lungs is very injurious. 

Expulsive Beeathing. — Obey same directions for po- 
sition, etc., as in preceding exercise. Take a deep breath 
through nostrils (observe very carefully the action of 



BREATHING. 15 

abdomen), quickly, but quietly, and expel the sound of 
H, like ordinary whispered cough. 

Explosive Breathing. — Directions for position, etc., 
same as in effusive breathing. Take breath very quickly 
and expel H with abrupt and forcible violence. 

Costal Breathing. — Hands on side (lower ribs,) 
and breathe as in abdominal breathing, observing at 
the same time that the lower rib muscles of side move 
outwardly during inhalation and inwardly during expi- 
ration of breath. 

Dorsal (Back) Breathing. — Hands on lower part of 
back, with fingers pressing sides of spine, and by force 
of will throw out back muscles, similar to costal breath- 
ing. All the muscles act more or less during this exer- 
cise, for they are dependent on each other; and it will 
be observed that the muscles of the back and side move 
naturally with less freedom than those of the abdomen. 
Deep breathing, with the lips closed, is very beneficial. 
Practice these exercises perseveringly, but not to excess. 
Twenty minutes or a half hour daily is sufficient. Exer- 
cise in breathing when walking and ascending stairs. 
Take a full, deep breath on ascending two steps of stair- 
way, and expel on the third. This will be found very 
beneficial. If the muscles fail to work properly, practice 
Prof. J. Howard's forcing exercise : Hold the nose firmly 
with the hand (nasal passage closed), and attempt to 
blow it. The mouth and nose being closed, no air can 
escape, and it will be noticed when the effort is made to 



16 BREATHING. 

blow the nose there will be a resistance, an agitation in 
the abdomen; — the muscles are forced to work. 

How to Control the Breath. — A reader or speaker 
should never be heard breathe. Breath should be 
inhaled imperceptibly, and the lungs kept supplied 
with air. To exhaust the air in the lungs will cause 
many unpleasant gasps, and weary both reader and 
hearer. Good readers and speakers are never out of 
breath, only for effect. 

Take any sentence, particularly one requiring consid- 
erable force and practice control of breath. Here is an 
example : 

" Now, the Flag-- Sergeant cried, (breathe.) 
Though death and hell betide, (breathe.) 
Let the whole Nation see 
If we are fit to be free 
In this land, (breathe) or bound 
Down, like the whining hound, (breathe.) 
Bound with red stripes of pain 
In our old chains again." 

It does not follow that all readers would take breath 
as above noted. People are governed by their breath 
capacity, and the above example will simply serve as an 
illustration. Poor readers do not inhale enough and 
exhale too much air. Inhale just enough air to carry 
the voice through a sentence or part of a sentence. Take 
breath just before the lungs are entirely exhausted. Breathe 
before the a's, e's and o's, for the mouth is then open and 
the breathing will be light and unperceived by the audi- 
ence. If the chest is raised the air will enter noiselessly. 

The following exercise, suggested by a French writer, 



BREATHING. 17 

will be found very good for converting breath into 
sound, and preventing it from escaping : 

" Take a lighted candle, and, standing close to it, sing 
the note do. The light is hardly affected. But instead 
of a single note, sing the whole octave, and you will see 
that at every note the light nickers, for the breath es- 
capes. Practice carefully, and strive to inhale only 
enough to emit the note; allow none to escape, and in 
time the voice will run up a whole octave without caus- 
ing the light to quiver, for the air is employed in form- 
ing the note, and has too much to do to become wind/' 

Those who Stammer or Stutter will find these 
breathing exercises of great benefit; for stammering, 
unless caused by organic defects, is the result of imper- 
fect respiration. Try the " breath cure," and the good 
effects will be soon evident. 



ARTICULATION 



When one is learning a language lie attends to the 
sounds; but, when he is master of it, he attends only 
to the sense of what he would express. — Reid on the Mind. 

Production of Speech. — The breath, striking against 
the larynx, ( " voice box " ), modified by the action of the 
lips, teeth, tongue and palate, produces speech. The 
larynx (commonly called Adam's apple) is the upper part 
of the windpipe. If the breath is not properly managed 
the result will be a compression of the muscles of the 
larynx, and a consequent imperfect tone. Voice is de- 
pendent on the breath, and no perfect tone can be made. 
■without a proper control of the organs of respiration. Ut- 
terance should always be preceded by inhalation from 
base of lungs, for voice is made on expulsion of breath. 
The voice changes in children when they reach the age 
of puberty — the pitch lowers and the larynx enlarges, 
particularly in boys. Great care must be taken with the 
voice at this period, and children should not practice 
any voice culture that calls for changes of pitch or deep 
qualities of tone, but should confine themselves to read- 
ings of a conversational nature, with a proper regard to 



AKTICULATION. 19 

control of breath, good articulation, and intelligent ex- 
pression. 

Rules foe Goyeknment of Organs of Speech. — 
Keep the lips evenly in line with the teeth, with edges of 
teeth visible. Do not protrude lips. Tongue should 
never be depressed within lower jaw, or protruded be- 
tween teeth. The tongue should be held back and 
slightly elevated, so its motions will be independent 
of those of jaw. During pauses of speech keep the 
teeth slightly apart. The tongue has no action against 
lower teeth, and should never touch them in articu- 
lation. Let downward motion of jaw be smooth and 
without jerking — two lines of teeth parallel. Do not let 
edges of teeth come quite in contact. 

Articulation. — It is distinctness of articulation — a 
correct utterance of the sounds of a language — more 
than mere loudness that makes reading or speaking well 
heard and understood. 

Practical Exercises. — The vowels, called tonics, are 
simple pure sounds. The long vowels * are — 1. eel; 2. ale; 
3. arm; 4. all; 5. old; 6. ooze. The short vowels are — 1. it; 
2. ell; 3. at; 4. on; 5. up; 6. u as in full. Dip thongs are 
two sounds united in one syllable. They are— ou, oi, i as 
in lie, u as in mute. 

A well expanded chest, deep inhalation, and free open- 
ing of mouth, prepares the organs for action. Repeat long 

* There are six long- and six short vowels. All other sounds are 
more or less closely united combinations of these elements.— Potter. 



20 ARTICULATION. 

vowels, commencing at 1. e (observe directions for gov- 
ernment of vocal organs), and continue to 6. oo. Repeat 
short vowels in a similar way. Strive, by proper econ- 
omy of breath, to carry the voice through the long and 
short vowels (long vowels effusive breathing, short vow- 
els expulsive breathing) on one inhalation. Take deep 
breath at 1. e, long sound, and emit long vowels on same 
inspiration to 6. oo. Take another breath and com- 
mence short vowels, paying out breath expulsively to « 
as in full. 

Consonants —(literally , "sounding with,") are used 
principally for sounding with vowels. The letters of the 
alphabet, vowels excepted, are called consonants, and 
their elementary sounds are divided into subtonics and 
aspirates. Subtonics are sounds produced by voice, mod- 
ified by vocal organs. They are— b, d, g,j, I, m, n, ng, 
r, th as in thine, v, w, y, z as in zest, z as in azure. Aspi- 
rates are mere breathings. They are — /, //, k, p, s, t, 
th as in thin, ch as in chase, sh as in shade, wh as in 
whale. 

Letters Formed by Lips.— B, P, W, V, F, M, Wh. 
In practicing these letters combined with a vowel 
sound, use the lips freely and make the sounds very 
distinct. In producing Wh compress lips and blow 
from center of mouth, then suddenly relax while air 
is escaping. In the practical exercises for forming 
letters, take a deep breath before each word, and 
pronounce in the effusive, expulsive and explosive 



ARTICULATION. 21 

forms of breathing. The formation of difficult elements 
only is given. Practice, — bass, pipe, up, fife, vap, maim, 
whap, whip. 

Letters dependent on Palate. — G as in gag, K as in 
cake, Y as in ye. G has a " soft " sound, as in genius. 
C has no element peculiar to itself, and takes the sounds 
of k and s. In practicing palatal sounds, open mouth 
freely, curve and hold back the tongue, and explode 
sound against palate. Practice, — gag, bag, big, ye, you 
yea. . 

Nasal Sounds — Letters affected by Nose. — N as 
in ink, N as in nun, NG as in sing. Practice, — ding, 
aping, nun ink. Give a fullness to ng. 

Letters formed by Tongue. — D, T, TH as in thine, 
TH as in thin, Z as in azure, Z as in zone, S, E, L, SH as 
in sham, J, CH. The teeth also aid in forming these letters. 
In practicing d, t, press tip of tongue against gum, near 
upper fore teeth, and separate quickly. Practice,-— dent, 
tent, bent, tend. To produce r, as in rap, vibrate tip of 
tongue against ridge of gum near upper fore teeth, and 
produce sound forcibly, but brief — make a slight trill, 
but do not prolong or roll. R should be slightly trilled 
when a vowel sound immediately follows it; as, ring, 
bring. To produce r (soft), vibrate slightly with whole 
fore part of tongue, draw back tongue and raise it towards 
roof of mouth, but do not touch it. Say far, not fah; 
star, not stah. Some people find it difficult to pronounce 
r correctly, and cannot give it a slight trill. The sound 



22 ART1CITLATIOX. 

seems to stay in the throat. A good plan, suggested by 
Legouve, is to pronounce te, de rapidly, and at the same 
time introduce re;-as, de, te, te, de, dre, tre, re, te; then 
drop t, and after more practice, the d, and allow the r 
to vibrate alone. The tongue will be busy in forming 
de, te, which are easily pronounced, and the r will be- 
come accustomed to vibrate with the others. Practice, — 
ring, bring, war, star, far, dart, cart, tree. 

To Produce the Th as in Thin. — Breathe forcibly, 
with slight horizontal parting of lips and forcible pres- 
sure of end of tongue against the upper fore teeth. 
Practice, — thin, thrust, think, breathe. 

To Articulate Sh. — Gently raise whole fore part of 
tongue towards roof of mouth, and aspirate sh, allowing 
breath to escape with considerable force. Practice, — 
shame, push, shrieked, shirk, lull, dull, shroud, siege, 
gone, azure, set, church, job. 

Aspirate Sound H. — Form by a forcible emission of 
breath in style of whisper, and moderate opening of or- 
gans. Practice, — he, hail, hit, hadst hull. H represents 
the aspirate or expulsive sounds of vowels. (Note —Let- 
ters not given are combinations of other sounds.) 

Additional Exercises. — In the following exercises 
bring out the elements distinctly, and linger on final 
consonants : Charm'st, midst, attempt, strive, thrill, 
throttle, strength, hanged, wafts, harm'dst, asked, whirl, 
sclave, sphere, depth, call'dst, meshes. 

Articulate d in and distinctly. Give a fulness to the 



ARTICULATION. 23 

final sh as in flash, wash. Thwing says that the Eev. 
Dr. Stone, on his departure for the Pacific Coast, gave a 
fulness to the final sh, in alluding to the "wash of the 
waves," and it made a picture instantly. 

Do not sat ax for acts, fax for facts, wen for when, 
wat for what, wile for while. See how wh is formed, 
page 20. Do not ignore final ng; as, findin for finding, 
sewin for sewing Bring out elements correctly — his- 
tory, not histry; every, not evry; regular, not reglar. 
Children sometimes say tat for cat. Place pencil in 
child's mouth over tongue and hold tongue down; then 
require child to pronounce k by expelling breath 
against palate; keep tongue held to t; then remove 
pencil and the child's tongue will form t readily — thus: 
k-a-t. If the tongue is kept from working it will be very 
difficult so say tat. Many people ignore practice in ar- 
ticulation, and think that nature has given them a dis- 
tinct utterance. Some of those people are responsible 
for the little girl who came home from Sunday school 
and entertained her mother by singing, in child- 
ish innocence, " Hand round the Wash Bag." It was 
" Bally round the Watchword " she should have said ; 
but "Hand round the Wash Bag " was all the little one 
could make out of the peculiar articulation in the Sun- 
day school. Mrs. Stowe says that for some years after 
she heard the line, " The seas and all that in them is " 
read, it appeared to her young mind as, " The seas and 
all the tinimies." 

General Instructions. — Take " Hamlet's Advice to 






^4 ARTICULATION. 

the Players," and read it carefully to a friend in an un- 
der tone, striving to make yourself understoo d by clear 
articulation and emphasize each syllable that it may 
reach the mind of the hearer. Eead the line: "Speak 
the speech, I pray you as I pronounced it to you trip- 
pingly on the tongue," and observe action of lips in p, 
tongue in d, t, palatal sound in k, and long vowels 
in speak and speech. Some say incorrectly spik for 
speak and spich for speech ; others, trippinly for 
trippingly. Sound ng distinctly. Continue the read- 
ing and practice as above indicated. 

It is the custom on the stage, and with many public 
speakers, to say me for my, as; "Me aunt's wine is 
worthy of me aunt." It is not good and may be called 
an "old country importation." Say my expulsively — 
short and quick without losing original sound — for 
ordinary purposes of speech, and effusively — my pro- 
longed — for general emphasis, or explosively for strong 
abrupt emphasis. "Pronounce words in such a manner as 
to be readily understood, but never in such a manner as to 
excite remark." With practice and perseverance the or- 
gans of speech will soon take care of themselves and 
enunciate naturally and distinctly, without any special 
effort of the will. 



THE PURE TONE, 



A Pure Voice — is a clear, distinct and smooth tone, 
and is free from gutteral, nasal, aspirate or other impure 
qualities. It is principally used in conversation, the 
expression of excessive joy, gayety, and all unemotional 
utterances. As the pure quality is most used it should 
be very carefully cultivated. 

To acquire a pure tone, which means a good voice, 
expand well the chest, breathe deeply; take in much 
breath, but give little out, and convert what escapes 
into sound; use abdominal muscles vigorously and open 
mouth freely. Direct breath towards front of mouth 
and out of mouth, and slightly raise the larnyx. The 
larnyx is raised in the act of swallowing; — raise it 
(slightly) in a similar manner in practicing pure tone. 
Place finger on larnyx, notice its motion, and also 
observe that the breath strikes fully fore part of mouth. 
Keep tongue in natural position. Whisper a, e, i, o, 
u, effusively — whisper prolonged — then expulsively, — 
whisper moderately quick. Having learned to hold the 
larnyx and direct the breath, repeat the vowels and con- 
vert whisper into full pure tone. With practice the 



2Cj THE PURE TONE. 

larnyx and breath will act naturally in obedience to the 
will. Use a smooth, gentle effusive form of pure voice 
in reading pathetic, solemn or sentimental selections. 
Select for practice "Rosary of my Years." Do not 
drawl the words or try to give them a "song sound;" 
but read slowly and smoothly, adhere closely to nature, 
make the reading the result of real' feeling, and the 
tone will be correct; for the rule of art is simply a rule 
of nature — nature properly expressed. The beauty of 
a fine sentimental reading, calling for quiet tranquil 
expression, would be seriously marred by a quick expul- 
sive delivery. In reading narrative, instructive or de- 
scriptive selections, use the expulsive form of voice — 
speak moderately quick — and give the reading sufficient 
vim and animation. Select "Hamlet's Advice" for a 
practical expulsive drill. In readings of a joyful or 
gay character speak the lines in a brisk, lively, style 
of pure voice. Select " Phaidrick Crohoore " for 
practice. 

"Every one has a natural pitch of voice which is 
most easy to himself, and used principally in conversa- 
tion. It is called the middle tone. To increase the 
power of voice, the middle tone must be strengthened, 
and to do this, practice the words, ' Lord Angus, thou 
hast lied' in this tone as loud as possible without 
allowing the voice to rise into a higher key." Take care 
not to strain the voice in this exercise by over exertion. 
Gradually increase the force, and keep it under proper 
control. 



THE PURS TONE. "27 

This practice will give the voice a good, foundation, 
and prepare it for the coming exercises. 

In impassioned utterance, reverential or devotional 
feeling, the pure tone is made more effective, by deep- 
ening and enlarging it, or giving the voice what is 
called an orotund quality. 

The Obotund Quality oe Voice.— Orotund is from 
the Latin phrase "ore rotundo," used by Horace in de- 
scribing the round, full, and flowing utterance of the 
Greeks. "It is the pure tone rounded in the mouth and 
deepened in the chest, a rich volume of trumpet sound." 
If the pure tone is deepened and rounded in sublime 
thought, reverential feeling, or pathos, mingled with 
grandeur, it will greatly enhance reading or speaking. 
"The cultivation of vocal music, in the form of singing 
bass," say Murdock and Kussell "is an effectual means of 
securing the property of effusive orotund utterance in 
reading and speaking." 

Females should not attempt a very deep tone, and 
should take care that the voice retains its feminine 
character, for any approach toward a masculine style, 
will seriously detract from the natural charm of a lady's 
delivery. 

Practice on the alto notes in music will be of service 
to females in acquiring an orotund quality. The oro- 
tund is a much abused quality of voice, and many 
readers and speakers use it injudiciously, barren 
of thought or feeling, and provoke the criticism, 
"He has too much elocution." The orotund should be 



THE PURE TONE. 28 

used in appropriate contrast with the pure tone, and 
artistically blended in an effective coloring of light 
and shade. It must partake not only of voice, but 
of thought; for the cultivation of the orotund does not 
reveal alone an attractive vocal quality, but a power of 
expression that finds its inspiration in the soul. 

To Produce the Orotund. — Expand chest, take a 
large inhalation of breath, use abdominal muscles, and 
keep mouth well open ; depress the larynx — the larynx 
is dropped as in yawning; drop it in a similar way in 
producing deep tone — and drop back of tongue. The 
back of tongue is depressed by drawing the tongue back- 
wards, as if trying to swallow it; — this will also cause the 
larynx to fall. Emit breath very freely; fix the eyes on 
a distant point and send tone forward out of mouth, 
aiming at point in view. Whisper the sounds ah, aw, o, 
effusively, expulsively and explosively, and when the 
organs and breath are under control, convert whisper 
into full orotund quality, and let the sound spring out 
with freedom and fulness. Practice effusive, etc. Ob- 
serve the difference in adjusting the organs in pure tone 
and orotund, and alternate with pure tone practice. 
Practice the word "charge" in pure tone, then orotund, 
using the different forms of voice. 

An Impure Nasal Tone can be remedied by practice 
on the orotund quality, for the veil of the palate is raised 
in the act of yawning or gaping (larynx depressed simi- 
larly), and the vocal current passes out through the 
mouth. When the veil of the palate falls upon the 



THE PURE TONE. 29 

tongue the passage to the mouth is closed, and the vocal 
current passes through the nostrils, causing a nasal tone. 
Use an effusive orotund voice in reading selections of a 
devotional, pathetic — mingled with gloom— or reveren- 
tial character, as : 

"These are thy glorious works. Parent of Good, 
Almighty! Thine this universal frame, 
Thus wondrous fair. Thyself how wondrous then!" 

See words of Priest in "Benediction." In delivering 
earnest or bold thought, an expulsive orotund will be 
found very effective. 

Select " Examples for Ireland" for drill. In the expul- 
sive orotund form, expel the words with vim and energy. 
In expressing courage, anger, terror, or very powerful 
feeling, explode the orotund with abrupt, violent force. 
Select last lines in the "Tell-Tale Heart" for practice, 
commencing, "Villains! dissemble no more." 

The captain's commands in " The Pilot," and the pilot's 
replies, will be found very good examples of the orotund. 
There is a difference in the pitch or elevation of voice; 
the captain's voice is high, and the pilot's low and full. 

A Tremor Quality, — or a slight trembling of the voice, 
is the natural expression of feeble old age, grief, or appeal 
for sympathy. It is very effectual in certain emotional 
feeling when properly used, but an excessive use of the 
tremor will destroy the desired effect. Example: 

"She might have lived struggling like T-izzie," etc. 
(See " Young Gray head '.") 

"If mamma were here, but she lies by his side," etc. 
(See " You put no Flowers on my Papa's Grave.") 



FORCE, 



Force is the degree of energy in which the sound is 
spoken. Sound can be produced with great force in a 
whisper as well as in a shout. If the pupil has dili- 
gently practiced the preceding lessons, he has gained a 
command of force, and a good vocal foundation, for 
force is dependent on the pressure of breath. Force must 
not be confounded with pitch, for a low key may be 
accompanied by strong force, and a high key by weak 
force. Force may be subdued, moderate, or very strong, 
according to the thought or feeling expressed. The 
drill on page 26, for increasing the power of voice by 
strengthening the middle tone, should be practiced 
frequently. Practice the sentence, "Ho! Bring the Boat 
over," with subdued force, then, moderate (used in 
ordinary conversation), then somewhat more powerful, 
and finally with all the force at command. It is not 
alone the possession of force, but its proper control 
and distribution, that makes reading or speaking 
attractive. The most powerful emotions are not always 
dependent on loudness of sound, and can be often best 
expressed in an energetic whisper. (See " Introductory 



FORCE. 31 

Essay," page 9.) Care should be taken to adapt the 
voice to the size and acoustic properties of the room or 
hall spoken in, and the opening part of a reading or 
speech should be in a low tone, with clear, clean-cut 
enunciation. " Nothing so commands silence as a low 
voice; people are hushed to hear, and end by listening." 
A reader or speaker must reserve his force for the 
proper time, and not expend too much on a single effort. 
He must " hold something back " from the people, or 
the people will hold back from hearing him. Expend 
no more than the exact amount of force required. In 
the " Tell-Tale Heart," the lines preceding the final 
climax, " Villains ! dissemble no more ! " call for an 
expression of intense energy, which must be given 
forcibly, but not necessarily with volume or loudness of 
voice. The volume of voice should be reserved for the 
great climax, and the contrast will give a startling and 
powerful effect. 

Peactical Dikections.-— Practice the opening lines 
of " McLaine's Child " in a whisper, with appropriate 
energetic expression, then in an undertone, and then 
with strong volume of voice. Strive to bring out the 
spirit of the words. 

The above example is intended for a practical drill in 
the various degrees of force. 

The whisper and half whisper degrees of force or 
qualities of voice, are used for expressing fear, alarm, 
horror and secrecy. Examples : 

<l While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
'Or whispering with white lips — 'The foe! they come! they come!.'" 



32 FORCE. 

"Who's there! Who's there!" "I kept quiet, very 
quiet." (See " Tell-Tale Heart.") "Hark! I hear some 
one." The whisper and half wbisper produce similar 
effects, and can be spoken effusively, expulsively or 
explosively, according to the character of feeling. The 
pupil should carefully study the sentiment, put the 
thought, as it were, in his own mind by reflecting how 
he would act under similar circumstances, or how other 
people are governed by their feelings, and nature will 
take care of the expression. Read selections of a 
solemn or serious character with quiet, subdued force. 
Select " Rest," for practical reading. 

In descriptive, narrative or unemotional selections, 
use a moderate degree of force. Practice,— "Richard 
Doubleclick," (first part). In expressing mirth or glad- 
ness, speak with energetic force. Practice, — "Money 
Musk." Use all the force at command for expressing 
scorn, defiance, and in exciting appeal. Practice, — 
" Black Regiment," " McLaine's Child." 

"In expressing pathos, the voice naturally drops to 
subdued force; in delivering narrative or instructive 
thought it is pleasantly modulated to moderate force. 
Speaking in a small room it is regulated to the size of 
room; addressing an audience in the open air, the voice 
is clear and audible, and when under the influence of 
strong excitement it is used with judgment, and does 
not rant or vociferate." 

Stress. — Force placed on a part of a word. The pupil 
has had a practical drill in the degrees of stress, 



FORCE. 



33 



(effusive, expulsive and explosive), and it is believed 
that this, with an understanding of force, as explained 
on the preceding pages, emphasis and inflections, will 
answer all practical purposes, and point out the 
" shortest way " to natural, effective expression, without 
necessarily elaborating or subdividing rules. The 
authorities on elocution have given many kinds of stress 
and many kinds of rules, and no doubt Archbishop 
Whately, when he wrote his criticism on elocutionary 
theories, felt, like many others, that a pedantic analysis 
of expression, and multiplication of rules, not only 
confused those seeking excellence in this attractive art, 
but caused a distaste for the study of elocution. 



PITCH -MODULATION OF VOICE, 



Pitch is the degree of elevation or depression of the 
Voice in reading or speaking. It is not necessarily an 
increase of force (see page 30). Practice on the musical 
scale is a very good aid in acquiring a control of pitch. 
An exercise on any word or words in the speaking voice 
corresponding to the notes of the musical scale, should 
be practiced carefully and diligently. The larynx 
gradually rises in singing the musical scale, or elevating 
the pitch of the speaking voice, and falls in the lower 
notes. Place ringer on larynx and observe its action. 
The middle pitch of the Voice — the natural or con- 
versational pitch — varies in individuals. It is com- 
paratively high in some people and low in others. 
Two persons may read the same selection on different 
keys, yet each be proper. The middle tone is most 
used in reading or speaking. In the following example, 
first, gradually lower the pitch, and gain control of the 
lower notes; then elevate the voice step by step, and 
master each note before another is attempted. " From 
the lower to the higher," says Dr. Streeter, " is nature's 



PITCH. MODULATION OF VOICE. 35 

law." Do not speak explosively; use a sustained, pro- 
longed tone, and increase the force with the elevation of 
pitch. Example: "The Herald's Call," Shakspeare. 

"Rejoice, you men of Angiers! Ring- your bells; 
King: John, your kiny and England's, doth approach; 
Open your gates and give the victors way! " 

Be careful not to strain the voice in the above exer- 
cise. Example for practice: 

Moderate > "On the earl's cheek, the flush of rag 
Pitch and Force, J O'er came the ashen hue of age; 
Lower. Fierce he broke forth: 

High. And darest thou then 

Rising. To beard the lion in his den, 

Higher, The Douglas in his hall? 

and And hop'st thou thence unscathed to go? 
Louder. No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, No ! 

Very high, Up draw-bridge: gfrooms, what, warder, ho! 

and Loud. Let the portcullis fall." 

" The elocutionist," say Murdock and Russell, 
'* draws his scale from feeling rather than from science 
or external rule. He cannot, like the musician, confine 
himself to a perfectly exact measurement of sound." 

Middle Pitch (conversational) is adapted to narra- 
tive, oratorical, instructive or descriptive styles of read- 
ing. Examples: "Patriotism." "Hamlet's Advice to 
the Players." Read " The Portrait " and study carefully 
the feelings of a man all alone reflecting " on the dead 
up stairs," and the pitch of voice will naturally lower, 
for the mind is governed by proper feeling. In hor- 
ror, despair, or deep solemnity, the pitch should be 
very low, and extracts of a supernatural style read 
in a low monotone or sameness of sound ; as, " I am 
thy father's spirit." Think well in reading, and intel- 



36 TITCH. MODULATION OF VOICE. 

ligence will suggest that when a selection is gay or 
buoyant, or earnest and impassioned in character, the 
pitch should be naturally raised in accordance with the 
sentiment expressed. 

Read "Keenan's Charge" and "Phaidrick Crohoore." 
A low pitch cau be used with great force in anger or 
hatred. Example: "I hate him, for that he is a Chris- 
tian." Observe the pitch of voice in feebleness, or the 
extremes of pain and fear. It is high, but lacks force. 
Example: "Who says I forgot?" (See closing lines of 
"Young Greyhead.") 

Changes of Pitch. Modulation. — " Appropriate va- 
riety of pitch on the successive words or syllables is one 
of the most essential parts of good reading." " The voice 
should flow on through all the changes of pitch (unless 
there is an abrupt break in the ideas), just as a good 
road runs on over every varying hills and vales, without 
once losing its smooth continuity." A sameness of pitch 
is characteristic of school boy reading, and many old 
boys who have left school. Pitch should be changed fre- 
quently, otherwise the voice will lack modulation and 
become very monotonous. It should be lowered 
in parenthesis, contrast, or simile. Examples : " One 
summer afternoon — at that time those steamers sel- 
dom carried boats — smoke was seen ascending from be- 
low." Lower the voice one note at the first italicized 
word, continue to last italicized word, and read " smoke " 
and " afternoon " on the same key of voice. The object 
is to bring out the main thought. Examples: "Double- 



PITCH. MODULATION OF VOICE. 37 

dick," said the captain, " do you know where you are go- 
ing to? " " I did not know, she said in a faint voice, her 
lips quivering zvith emotion, I did not know, till now, how 
hard it would be to leave my child." " Hold, as Hivere, 
the mirror up to nature." "Suit the action to the -word, the 
word to the action," In the following examples the de- 
pression of pitch is more marked, and the change par- 
takes of feeling: "And the star was shining; and it shines 
upon his graved " She turned her beaming eyes upon 
him — and it -was night." " Every man, woman and child 
was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took 
its flight to its God." Practice the " Pilot," and apply 
the principles of this lesson and tbe preceding exercises. 
The " Pilot " embraces many changes of pitch, force and 
quality. In changing pitch be careful not to make the 
contrast too marked, or the effect will be destroyed. 
There are many public speakers who mar the beauty of 
their delivery by a failure to modulate the voice prop- 
erly on the final words of a sentence, when a completion 
of sense is indicated. The voice should drop in pitch 
one tone at a time on the last three syllables of a sen- 
tence, complete in sense. If the selection is effusive or 
gentle in nature, the voice should move smoothly and 
gradually from one tone to another. Example : 

" I love it, I love it, and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving- that old 

arm 

chair." 

In the above example and similar exercises, use the 
speaking voice in its purity and smoothness, and avoid 



38 PITCH. MODULATION OF VOICE. 

a "sing song" cadence — a fault with many speakers. 
In strong feeling the decline of pitch, or fall of the 
voice, on the last three syllables of a sentence is more 
abrupt — not so gradual in sound as in effusive reading; 
and in ordinary reading the voice is dropped on each 
final syllable very slightly. Select "Rosary of my 
Years" for practice in smooth cadence. Read "Ex- 
amples for Ireland," and give Meagher's fine rhetorical 
words strength and spirit, by a well modulated cadence. 
The appended example from the work of Dr. Rush, will 
convey an idea of the frequent changes of pitch on 
unemphatic words and syllables. It is arranged to 
correspond with the musical notes of the doctor's illus- 
tration. " No more than two or three consecutive 
syllables should be given on the same tone. Natural 
melody demands that this frequent change of pitch on 
the unemphatic syllables should be only one tone at a 
time." 

Greeks 

most ful 

"That quarter | the | skil 

Where trees the [ walls 

you fi°: join of 

wild Troy. 



INFLECTIONS 



An inflection is a turn of the voice either upward or 
downward; — a change of pitch on a word or sound. 
In positive emphatic expression the falling inflection is 
used. The rising inflection expresses negative, in- 
complete thought. See appended Rules. 

The pitch of voice falls quite low on very positive or 
emphatic words, and for ordinary purposes of speech 
the downward turn is not so marked. The rising inflec- 
tion is moderately high in certain emotions, and rises 
higher when the feeling grows stronger. It may seem a 
repetition, but it cannot be too strongly emphasized that 
rules of art in reading or speaking are rules of nature, 
and the only true way to give words their proper inflec- 
tions is to fully understand and appreciate their mean- 
ing. If children were taught to read with thought the 
little boy would not ignore natural inflections and 
pauses, and say, " My name is Norval on the Grampian 
Hills," leaving his auditors to imagine that he had 
another name on the lowlands. If any difficulty is 
experienced in thinking, the rules, it is hoped, will help 
the pupil to think. Inflections of voice indicate 



40 



INFLECTIONS. 



character, and the following illustration may be of some 
interest. In the "dark days" of the war, when Gen. 
Price threatened a Missouri town, several hundred of 
its citizens assembled together and discussed measures 
for protection and defense. The speeches made on that 
occasion were passive or negative in character, and many 
present, who did not speak, looked a "rising inflection." 
But one man finally rose and said, " Gentlemen, there is 
only one course for brave men to pursue, one conclusion 
to reach, and that is to fight' ! " The power of that 
falling inflection cannot be expressed in words. It 
gave a heart and purpose to the meeting. The follow- 
ing selected rules can be studied with profit : 

Rule I. Direct questions usually require the rising 
inflection and their answers the falling; as, Have you 
read Dickens' works' ? Yes'. 

Note 1. Indifferent answers to questions take the 
rising inflection; as, "What did John say r ?" "Not 
much'." 

Note 2. When the first verb is emphasized and an 
affirmative reply is expected, the question requires the 
falling inflection; as, Is this true'. Is it right'. 

Note 3. When a direct question is not understood, 
and repeated with emphasis, it takes the falling inflec- 
tion; as, Are you going home'? I said are you going 
home' ? 

Rule II. Expressions of strong feeling such as 
positiveness, determination, authority, anger, exclama- 
tion, etc., require the falling inflection; as, I defy' the 
honorable gentleman. I'd rather be a dog\ and bay the 
moon v than such a Roman. Woe unto you Pharisees' ! 



INFLECTIONS. 41 

Note. — When exclamatory sentences become questions 
they take the rising inflection; as, What are you say- 
ing'! 

Rule III. A series of unemphatic single words, 
cases of direct address and suspension of the sense, 
usually require the rising inflection; as, Peter', James' 
and John', come here. Friends', Romans', Countrymen', 
lend me your ears. If thine enemy hunger' — 

Note. — The falling inflection is used in a very re- 
spectful opening address, or in address on solemn 
occasions ; as, Mr. President, Ladies and Gentle- 
men'. 

Rule IV. The last member of an emphatic commenc- 
ing series, and the last but one of an emphatic conclud- 
ing series, usually require the rising inflection, and all 
others the falling; as, A good disposition', virtuous 
principles*, a liberal education*, and industrious habits', 
are passports to honor. These reward a good disposi- 
tion', virtuous principles', a liberal education', and 
industrious habits'. 

Note. — Readers who have a different conception of a 
selection do not always use the same inflections on a 
series of words; as, Friends', Romans', Countrymen'. 
Friends', Romans', Countrymen'. The change from the 
rising to the falling inflection on the word countrymen, 
gives the word a power, and is a strong appeal to the 
feelings of those addressed. The use of the inflections 
on a series of words is according to the importance of a 
word; the rising inflection makes it unimportant, and 
the falling important. Good taste and judgment will 
suggest the proper inflection. 

Rule V. Indirect questions take the falling inflec- 
tion, and their answers the same; as, What did you say' ? 
Nothing'. 



42 INFLECTIONS. 

Note. — If the question is repeated it takes the rising 
inflection ; as, What did you say' ? 

Rule VI. The termination of thought, or comple- 
tion of sense at the close, or any other part of a sen- 
tence, requires the falling inflection; but when strong 
emphasis comes with the falling inflection near the close 
of a sentence, the rising inflection is generally used; as, 
Every human being has an idea of duty*; and to un- 
fold this idea is the end for which life was given him\ 
What night is this' ? A very pleasing night to hones? 
men'. 

Rule VII. When negation is opposed to affirmation 
the former takes the rising, and the latter the falling 
inflection; as, I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him'. 
This rule applies to comparison and contrast; as, Homer 
was the greater genius', Virgil the better artist'. 

Rule VIII. Questions, words and clauses, connected 
by the disjunctive or, usually require the rising inflec- 
tion before and the falling after it; though when or 
is used conjunctively it takes the rising inflection after 
as well as before it; as, Does he deserve praise' or 
blame' ? Can youth', or health', or pleasure' satisfy 
the soul' ? 

Rule IX. The language of concession, entreaty, 
politeness and tender emotions generally require the 
rising inflection; as, Your remark is true'; the manners 
of the country have not all the desirable ease and free- 
dom'. John', John', do not do so'. 

Rule X. The rising inflection is used in the express- 
ion of intense surprise and astonishment; as, Must I 
budge' ? I an itching palm' ? Seems, madam' ? Nay, it 
is; I know not seems. 

The following selection from " Othello " is a good 
example of the rising inflection. Give particular atten- 



INFLECTIONS. 



48 



tion to the negative or seemingly indifferent replies of 
Iago, and the effect produced on Othello by Iago's 
Inflections : 

Iago. My noble lord' — 

Othello. What dost thou say', Iago'? 

Iago. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady, know' of 

your love' ? 
Othello. He did', from first to last' : why dost thou ask' ? 
Iago. But for a satisfaction of my thought' : No further harm'. 

Othello. Why of thy thought', Iago'? 

Iago. I did not think he had been acquainted' with it. 

Othello. Oh' yes', and went between us very oft. 
Iago. Indeed'? 

Othello. Indeed'! aye, indeed'! Discern'st thou aught in that'? 

Is he not honest'? 
Iago. Honest', my lord'? 

Othello.- Aye honest'. 
Iago. My lord, for aught I know'. 

Othello. Whit dost thou think'? 
Iago. Think', my lord'? 

Othello. Think, my lord? By heaven, he echoas me, 

As if there were some monster in his thoughts 

Too hideous to be shown. 

The Waves of the Voice.— When sarcasm, irony, jest, 
ridicule, or double meaning is expressed, the inflections 
unite on a word or syllable, and this union is called a 
wave of the voice. When the voice waves, first down- 
ward, and then upward, it is called a rising wave, and is 
given to negative ideas; when it waves upward and 
downward, it is a falling wave, and is used for positive 
ideas. A study of the following examples, as applied to 
nature, and a substitution of original examples, will give 
a better understanding of the expression of irony or 
double meaning by the natural waves of the voice than 
an elaborate analysis, which would really confuse more 



44 INFLECTIONS. 

than enlighten. Examples. — Falling wave: Talleyrand 
being pestered with questions by a squinting man, con- 
cerning his broken leg, replied, " It is quite crooked, as 
you 'seeV Hume said he would go twenty miles to hear 
Whitefield preach, but he would take no pains to hear an 
'ordinary' preacher. 
Examples. — Rising wave : 

Queen. Hamlet, you have your father much offended. 
Hamlet. iVladam; y yoti' have my father much offended. 

Example. — Rising and falling : " If you said 'so', then 
'soV " O 'ho* ! did you say 'so' ?" 

Practice the vowels with the different inflections, first 
rising then falling, then the rising and falling waves, 
This exercise will give the voice flexibility. 



EMPHASIS AND PAUSES, 



Emphasis means to point out, or bring out strongly, 
the sense of a word. When a word is emphasized the 
mind should dwell on the idea the word conveys, and the 
idea will reproduce itself in the minds of the auditors. 
When words are used in contrast, or point out a dif- 
ference, they are emphatic ; as, " I did not say a better 
soldier, but an elder. 1 " When there is a succession of im- 
portant words or phrases the words gradually increase 
in force; as, " I was born an American; I live an Ameri- 
can; I shall die an American." "But here I stand for 
right — for Roman right." All important words or phrases 
should be emphasized or brought out. It requires study 
and judgment to determine the proper emphatic word. 
Rules are of little avail. Boswell says Dr. Johnson 
criticised Garrick and Gifford, noted actors of their time, 
for incorrectly emphasizing certain words. They dis- 
puted Johnson's assertion, and the great lexicographer, 
gave them the ninth commandment, "Thou shalt not 
bear false witness against thy neighbor," for a test ex- 
ample. They both tried and failed. Johnson gave the 
emphasis on not and false witness, and enjoyed his 



46 



EMPHASIS AXD PAUSES. 



victory. Legouve, gives the following very original 
illustration for bringing out the importance of words. 
" The subject is the " Oak and the Reed." You begin: 
The Oak— here your voice must be round and full. Your 
gesture must be noble and somewhat emphatic; you are 
describing a giant, you know, his head in the clouds, 
his feet in the regions of eternal death: 

'' The Oak, one day said to the reed." 

Remember! Hardly any voice at all in pronouncing 
the word reed. Let your intonation belittle him, 
squeeze him, crush him, the wretched vegetable. All 
this in a masterly way, Avith a low, smothered voice, as 
if you were looking down on him from a great distance." 
A clergyman once read the following passage from the 
Bible with the emphasis thus: "And the old man said 
unto his sons, saddle me the ass; and they saddled kirn." 
The effect of the emphasis on the word him can well be 
imagined. 

There are public speakers who give their words a 
sledge hammer blow, and then suddenly decrease in 
force, causing a very disagreeable shock to the ears. 
Force should be applied to an important word with a 
" temperance that will give it smoothness." Emphasis 
in speech is like coloring in painting. There must be a 
proper contrast or the effect will be lost. In an effusive 
reading, the increase and decrease of force on an em- 
phatic word must be smooth and gradual, that there may 
be a harmonious blending of vocal coloring. The voice 
should fall on an emphatic word, (see Inflections) and a 



EMPHASIS AND PAUSES. 47 

slight pause made before it, which will excite expecta- 
tion, and after, to give the thought time to lodge in the 
minds of the people. 

PAUSES. 

" Every sentence has a double set of punctua- 
tion marks, one visible, the other invisible; one is 
the printer's, the other the reader's." In reading or 
speaking, a pause should be made, on an average, at 
every fifth or sixth word. Sometimes the sentiment or 
emotion will call for a prolonged pause at the close, or 
any part of a sentence. If the pause is emotional or 
made for effect, it must be given a certain power of 
expression. Sterne says in the "Critic:" "In suspend- 
ing his voice, — was the sense suspended? Did no ex- 
pression of attitude or countenance fill up the chasm ? 
Was the eye silent?" There is an unexpressed meaning 
in a pause; a picture is made that appeals to the heart; 
the people not only hear, — they see. The length of 
pauses depends upon the character of the reading. If 
the reading is unemotional they are moderate; if it 
embraces deep feeling, solemnity or grandeur, they are 
long, and in strong impassioned emotion, they are 
varied in length. In the following example observe the 
general pauses, and the effect of a prolonged pause on 
the word it. Use the imagination in picturing the 
"illustrious dead." The cultivation of the imagination 
is an important requisite in the art of reading. 

Example: "I would uncover the breathless corpse of 
Hamilton, - 1 would lift from his gaping wound his 



EMPHASIS AND PAUSES. 

bloody mantle -I would hold it up to heaven before 
them, and I would ask— in the name of God I would 
ask— whether at the sight of iT-they felt no compunc- 
tion." 

In " The Pilot," a pause after the line, " John May- 
nard stood at the helm," with appropriate expression 
and appreciation of the heroic character of the man will 
give great power to the mental picture. Study the effect 
of the pause, and let the face reflect the thought, at the 
close of the following lines from "Julius Caesar:" "My 
heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, and I must pause 
till it come back to me." The student must use discrim- 
ination in pausing, or the effect will not be good. Kules 
may aid, but they cannot meet all requirements. The 
judgment may at times suggest a departure from some 
particular rule. Be careful not to pause too long. 

Kules fob Pausing.— Pauses should be made before— 
" 1. Infinitive phrases; as, He has gone | to convey the 

tier us. 

2 Kelative pronouns; as, He laughs best | who laughs 
last. 

3. Adjectives following their nouns; as, Dim minia- 
ture of greatness | absolute! 

4. An elipsis or omitted word; as, So goes the world: 
if | wealthy, you may call this | friend, that | brother. 

5. Prepositional phrases ; as, Never measure other 
people's corn | by your own bushel. 

6. A word or words of strong emphasis ; as, The 
Union | must be preserved. 



EMPHASIS AND PAUSES. 49 

Pauses should be made after — 

1. Nominative phrases or compound nominatives; as 
All high poetry | is infinite. Joy and sorrow | move him 
not. 

2. An emphatic word ; as, Strike | till the last armed 
foe expires. 

3. Objective phrase; as, A word once spoken | a coach 
and six horses cannot bring it back." 

To prevent the too frequent recurrence of pauses the 
voice should be held or suspended on certain words 
without necessarily pausing. This is very important. 

Example: 

How shall we rank thee | upon glory's pagfe, 
Thou mora than soldier, and just less than sage ! 
All thou hast been{reflects less praise | on thee, 
Far less | than all thou hast forborne to be. 

The perpendicular lines represent the actual pauses 
in the above example, and the parallel the prolongation 
of sound. 

Select the " Pride of Battery B " and other readings 
for practice, and endeavor to apply the rules and prin- 
ciples of this lesson. 



RATE, GESTURE, ETC, 



In elocution the rate of utterance may be rapid, very 
rapid, slow, very slow and moderate. A rapid rate is used 
for animated or lively expression ; very rapid for excite- 
ment or alarm and commotion ; slow for contemplative 
and pathetic feeling; very slow for deep emotion, such as 
reverence or adoration, and the moderate rate for ordina- 
ry narrative or descriptive thought. ' ' The power of move- 
ment or rate may be observed in the difference between a 
school-boy gabbling through his task, in haste to get rid 
of it, and a great tragedian, whose whole soul is rapt 
in the part of Cato uttering the soliloquy on immortality, 
or Hamlet musing on the great themes of duty, life and 
death." There are some speakers who drawl their words, 
and give sentences that call for animated feeling, a 
dreary, gloomy expression ; and there are others who 
have very eloquent thought, but they utter their words 
so rapidly that many of their best points are lost, for 
the auditors are not given sufficient time to think with 
them. We were once approached by a young politician, 
who said he spoke too rapidly, and wanted to know how 



RATE, GESTURE, ETC. 51 

to correct the habit. " Speak slowly," we answered. " A 
very simple remedy, thank you." 

Select " Drunkards not all Brutes," for a drill in mod- 
erate rate; "You put no flowers on my papa's grave," 
and " The Portrait," for slow rate, and "Money Musk" 
for very quick rate. Speak the lines, " I sprang to it, 
seizing it wildly," etc., in " Asleep at the Switch" very 
quickly and with great force. " Asleep at the Switch" 
and i; Phaidrick Crohoore" are good examples of quick 
and very quick rates of utterance. Selections of a de- 
votional or reverential character should be read very 
slowly. A reading may admit of many changes of rate. 
Select other readings for practice. 

The Guttural Quality of Voice. — The guttural 
is a rough, harsh tone, which seems to come from an 
obstructed throat. It expresses hate, rage, denuncia- 
tion, etc. This quality should not be used until the 
voice is on a sure foundation, and then very sparing- 
ly. It is generally used in personating character. Exam- 
ples, " 1 hate him for that he is a Christian." (" Merchant 
of Venice") 

" Avaunt and quit my sight ! 
Let the earth hide thee !" 

PERSONATION— EXPEESSION. 
In personating character the voice should change in 
pitch and sometimes in quality. The story of Richard 
Doubledick affords a good illustration. Doubledick 
speaks in a lower pitch than Captain Taunton, his voice 
trembles with feeling and his emotion at times chokes his 



52 BATE, GESTUEE, ETC. 

utterance. A careful study of people and their peculiar- 
ities of voice and manner, is the only way to succeed in 
portraying character. It is a sympathy in common with 
the character, at least for the time being, that hides our 
own personalities and makes the delineation true to 
nature. The sentiment of Kichard Doubledick is very 
hard to analyze. It is a story of the heart that goes to 
the heart. When Doubledick says " God bless you" and 
" I will, and ask only for one witness," there is a feel- 
ing expressed that is beyond analysis. Feeling must be 
always under command. If a reader loses control over 
his emotions, instead of exciting tears or alarm, he will 
only provoke laughter. Prof. Hartley says : "A single 
tear glistening in the eye, or a natural tremor on one 
single word is worth a him Ired dry lines of artificial 
declamation." Bret Harte was once told that a well 
known public man cried when reading one of his de- 
lightful stories. "I cried, myself, when I wrote it," 
replied Bret Harte. It is of such material that artists 
are made. 

GESTUEE. 
Gesture is the physical expression of a thought. Gen- 
eral directions for grace of action are deemed a sufficient 
guide for the student of elocution — experience will do 
the rest. When the thought expressed is tranqui 1 , the 
action should be smooth, and the hands move in slightly 
curved lines, but the gesture must not show any evidmce 
of previous study. The mind should direct the hand and 
the thought put in the ringer ends. A lady said of a 



RATE, GESTURE, ETC- . 53 

great tragedian : "I did not see his hands and feet." 
The actor " suited the action to the word, the word to 
the action." The auditors saw the object pointed ocit 
and not the hand that pointed out the object. Gesture 
should be made only when it is really necessary. We 
were at one time very profuse with gesticulation, but in 
our travels we left behind, in each town visited, many 
superfluous motions. Experience taught us that tco 
much physical action calls attenion from the subject to 
the speaker. Facial expression should always precede 
gesture, and when the purpose of the gesture is accom- 
plished, the hand should fall gracefully to the side. 
"Next to the voice in effectiveness," says Cicero, "is the 
countenance, and this is ruled over by the eyes." "When 
a man is possessed with his subject," saysBroadus, " and 
thoroughly subordinates all thought of self, his counten- 
ance will spontaneously assume every appropriate ex- 
pression." On appearing before an audience, a reader 
or speaker should not immediately commence his subject, 
but should let his eyes, for a moment, wander over the 
auditory and become familiar, as it were, with the people 
present. The carriage of the body must be easy and 
self-possessed, indicating confidence, but not egotism. 
Experience will do more than instruction in this particu- 
lar. A gr ace of manner and command of person always 
distinguishes the professional reader from the amateur. 
Make a slight, easy inclination of the head in bowing, 
and keep the eyes, with a pleased expression, on the 
audience. There is a charm in a bow, if made grace- 



54 KATE, GESTURE, ETC. 

fully, that creates a very agreeable impression. Famil- 
iarity with polite society and refinement of feeling, con- 
tribute greatly to success in reading or speaking. Good 
breeding will reflect in manner and speech, and it is very 
easy to discern the gentleman in the speaker. 



SELECTIONS, 



HAMLET'S INSTRUCTION TO THE PLAYEES. 

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to 
you, — trippingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as 
many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier 
spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with 
your hand, thus : but use all gently ; for in the very tor- 
rent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your pas- 
sion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may 
give it smoothness. Oh ! it offends me to the soul, to 
hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to 
tatters, — to very rags, — to split the ears of the ground- 
lings ; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but 
inexplicable dumb show and noise, I woul^ have such 
a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant ; it out-herods 
Herod. Pray you, avoid it. Be not too tame neither, 
but let your own discretion be your tutor ; suit the action 
to the word, the word to the action ; with this special 
observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature : 
for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, 
whose end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold, 
as 'twere, the mirror up to nature ; — to show virtue her 
own feature ; scorn her own image ; and the very age and 
body of the time, his form and pressura Now, this over- 
done or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful 
laugh, can not but make the judicious grieve ; the cen- 



56 SELECTIONS. 

sure of which one must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a 
whole theatre of others. Oh ! there be players, that I 
have seen play, — and heard others praise, and that highly, 
not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent 
of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, 
have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some 
of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made 
them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. — 
Shaksfeare. 



THE PILOT. 

John Maynard was well known in the lake district as a 
God-fearing, honest, and intelligent pilot. He was pilot 
on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. One summer 
afternoon — at that time those steamers seldom carried 
boats — smoke was seen ascending from below, and the 
captain called out : 

" Simpson, go below and see what the matter is down 
there." 

Simpson came up with his face pale as ashes, and said, 
"Captain, the ship is on fire." 

Then " fire ! fire ! fire !" on shipboard. 

All hands were called up. Buckets of water were 
dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large quan- 
tities of rosin and tar on board, and it was found useless 
to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed for- 
ward and inquired of the pilot : 

" How far are we from Buffalo ?" 

" Seven miles." 

" How long before we can reach there ?" 

" Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of 
steam." 

" Is there any danger ?" 

"Danger, here — see the smoke bursting out — go for- 
ward if you would save your lives." 



SELECTIONS. 57 

Passengers and crew — men, women and children — 
crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard 
stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of 
fire ; clouds of smoke arose. The captain cried out 
through his trumpet : 

" John Maynard !" 

" Aye, aye, sir !" 

" Are you at the helm?" 

" Aye, aye, sir !" 

" How does she head?" 

" South-east by east, sir." 

" Head her south-east and run her on shore," said the 
captain. Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the 
shore. Again the captain cried out : 

" John Maynard !" 

The response came feebly this time, " Aye, aye, sir !" 

'* Can you hold on five minutes longer, John ?" he said. 

"By God's help, I will." 

The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp, one 
hand disabled, his knee upon the stanchion, and his teeth 
set, with his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as 
a rock. He beached the ship ; every ma a, woman and 
child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit 
took its flight to its God. — John B. Gough. 



THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK. 

In the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety- 
nine, a relative of mine came limping down, on foot, to 
this town of Chatham. I call it this town, because if 
anybody present knows to a nicety where Rochester ends 
and Chatham begins, it is more than I do. He was a 
poor traveler, with not a farthing in his pocket. He sat 
by the fire in this very room, and he slept one night in a 
bed that will be occupied to-night by some one here. 



58 SELECTIONS. 

My relative came down to Chatham to enlist in a caval- 
ry regiment, if a cavalry regiment would have him ; if 
not, to take King George's shilling from any corporal or 
sergeant who would put a bunch of ribbons in his hat. 
His object was to get shot ; but he thought he might as 
well ride to death as be at the trouble of walking. My 
relative's Christian name was Richard, but he was better 
known as Dick. He dropped his own surname on the 
road coming down and took up that of Doubledick. He was 
passed as Richard Doubledick ; age, twenty-two ; height, 
five foot ten ; native place, Exmouth, which he had nev- 
er been near in his life. There was no cavalry in Chat- 
ham when he limped over the bridge here with half a 
shoe to his dusty foot, so he enlisted into a regiment of 
the line, and was glad to get drunk and forget all about 
it. You are to know that this relative of mine had gone 
wrong, and run wild. His heart was in the right place, 
but it was sealed up. He had been betrothed to a good 
and beautiful girl, whom he had loved better than she — 
or perhaps even he — believed ; but in . an evil hour he 
had given her cause to say to him solemnly, " Richard, I 
will never marry any other man, I will live single for 
your sake, but Mary Marshall's lips" — her name was 
Mary Marshall — " will never address another word to you 
on earth. Go, Richard ! Heaven forgive you !" This fin- 
ished him. This brought him down to Chatham. This 
made him Private Richard Doubledick, with a determi- 
nation to be shot. There was not a more dissipated and 
reckless soldier in Chatham barracks, in the year one 
thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine than Private 
Richard Doubledick. He associated with the dregs of 
every regiment ; he was as seldom sober as he could be, 
and was constantly under punishment. It became clear 
to the whole barracks that Private Richard Doubledick 
would very soon be flogged. Now the captain of Richard 



SELECTIONS. 59 

Doubleclick's company was a young gentleman not above 
five years his senior, whose eyes had an expression in 
them which affected Private Eichard Doubledick in a 
very remarkable way. They were bright, handsome, 
dark eyes,— what are called laughing eyes generally , and, 
when serious, rather steady than severe,— but they were 
the only eyes now left in his narrowed world that Private 
Eichard Doubledick could not stand. Unabashed by evil 
report and punishment, defiant of everything else and 
everybody else, he had but to know that those eyes 
looked at him for a moment, and he felt ashamed. He 
could not so much as salute Captain Taunton in the 
street like any other officer. He was reproached and con- 
fused, — troubled by the mere possibility of the captain's 
looking at him. In his worst moments, he would rather 
turn back, and go any distance out of his way, than en- 
counter those two handsome, dark, bright eyes. One day 
when Private Eichard Doubledick came out of the Black 
hole, where he had been passing the last eight-and-forty 
hours, and in which retreat he spent a good deal of his 
time, he was ordered to betake himself to Captain Taun- 
ton's quarters. In the stale and squalid state of a man 
3ust out of the Black hole, he had less fancy than ever 
for being seen by the Captain ; but he was not so mad 
yet as to disobey orders, and consequently went up to the 
terrace over-looking the parade-ground, where the offi- 
cer's quarters were, twisting and breaking in his hands, 
as he went along, a bit of the straw that had formed the 
decorative furniture of the Black hole. 

"Come in !" cried the Captain, when he knocked with 
his knuckles at the door. Private Eichard Doubledick 
pulled off his cap, took a stride forward and felt very 
conscious that he stood in the light of the dark, bright 
eyes. There was a -silent pause. Private Eichard 
Doubledick had put the straw in his mouth, and was 



60 SELECTIONS. 

gradually doubling it up into his windpipe and choking 
himself. 

" Doubledick," said the Captain, " do you know where 
you are going to ?" 

4; To the Devil, sir ?" faltered Doubledick. 

" Yes," returned the Captain. " And very fast." 

Private Richard Doubledick turned the straw of the 
Black hole in his mouth, and made a miserable salute of 
acquiescence. 

" Doubledick," said the Captain, " since I entered his 
majesty's service, a boy of seventeen, I have been pained 
to see many men of promise going that road ; but I have 
never been so pained to see a man determined to make 
the shameful journey as I have been, ever since you 
joined the regiment, to see you." 

Private Richard Doubledick began to find a film steal- 
ing over the floor at which he looked ; also to find the 
legs of the Captain's breakfast table turning crooked, as 
if he saw them through water. 

" I am only a common soldier, sir," said he. " It signi- 
fies very little what such a poor brute comes to." 

" You are a man," returned the Captain, with grave in- 
dignation, " of education and superior advantages ; and 
if you say that, meaning what you say, you have sunk 
lower than I had believed. How low that must be, I 
leave you to consider, knowing what I know of your dis- 
grace, and seeing what I see." 

ik I hope to get shot soon, sir," said Private Richard 
Doubledick, " and than the regiment and the world to- 
gether will be rid of me." 

The legs of the table were becoming very crooked. 
Doubledick, looking up to steady his vision, met the eyes 
that had so strong an influence over him. He put his 
hand before his own eyes, and the breast of his disgrace- 
jacket swelled as if it would fly asunder. 



SELECTIONS. 61 

"I would rather," said the young Captain, " see this in 
you, Doubledick, than I would see five thousand guineas 
counted out upon this table for a gift to my good mother- 
Have you a mother ?" 

''lam thankful to say she is dead, sir." 

" If your praises," retarned the Captain, " were sound- 
ed from mouth to mouth through the whole regiment' 
through the whole army, through the whole country, 
you would wish she had lived to say, with pride and joy, 
' He is my son !' " 

" Spare me, sir," said Doubledick. " She would never 
have heard any good of me. She would never have had 
any pride and joy in owning herself my mother. Love 
and compassion she might have had, and would have 
always had, I know ; but not — Spare me, sir ! I am a 
broken wretch, quite at your mercy !" And he turned 
his face to the wall and stretched out his imploring hand. 

" My friend — " began the Captain. 

" God bless you, sir !" sobbed Private Richard Double- 
dick. 

" You are at the crisis of your fate. Hold your course 
unchanged a little longer, and you know what must hap- 
pen. 1 know even better than you can imagine, that, 
after that has happened, you are lost. No man who 
could shed those tears could bear those marks." 

" I fully believe it, sir," in a low, shivering voice, said 
Private Richard Doubledick. 

" But a man in any station can do his duty," said the 
young Captain, ''and, in doing it, can earn his own 
respect, even if his case should be so very unfortunate 
and so very rare that he can earn no other man's. A 
common soldier, poor brute though you called him just 
now, has this advantage in the stormy times we live in, 
that he always does his duty before a host of sympathiz- 
ing witnesses. Do you doubt lhat he may so do it as to 



62 SELECTIONS. 

be extolled through, a whole regiment, through a whole 
army, through a whole country ? Turn while you may 
yet retrieve the past, and try." 

" I will ! I ask for only one witness*, sir," cried Eich- 
ard, with a bursting heart. 

' I understand you. I will be a watchful and faithful 
one." 

I have heard from Private Eichard Doubledick's own 
lips that he dropped down upon his knee, kissed that offi- 
cer's hand, arose, and went out of the light of the darL> 
bright eyes, an altered man. 

In that year, one thousand seven hundred and ninety- 
nine, the French were in Egypt, in Italy, in Germany* 
where not ? Napoleon Bonaparte had likewise begun to 
stir against us in Indie, and most men could read the 
signs of the great troubles that were coming on. In the 
very next year, when we formed an alliance with Aus- 
tria against him, Captain Taunton's regiment was on 
service in India. And there was not a finer non-commis- 
sioned officer in it— no, nor in the whole line, than Cor- 
poral Eichard Doubledick. In eighteen hundred and 
one, the Indian army were on the coast of Egypt. Next 
year was the year of the proclamation of the short peace, 
and they were recalled. It had then become well known 
to thousands of men, that wherever Captain Taunton, 
with the dark, bright eyes, led, there, close to him, ever 
at his side, firm as a rock, true as the sun, and brave as 
Mars, would be certain to be found, while life beat in 
their hearts, that famous soldier, Sergeant Eichard 
Doubledick. Eighteen hundred and five, beside? being 
the great year of Trafalgar, was a year of hard 
fighting in India. That year saw such wonders done by 
a Sergeant-Major, who cut his way single-handed 
through a solid mass of men, recovered the colors of his 
regiment, which had been seized from the hand of a roor 



SELECTIONS, f>3 

boy shot through the heart, and rescued his wounded 
captain, who was down, and in a very jungle of horses' 
hoofs and sabres, — saw such wonders done, 1 say, by this 
brave Sergeant-Ma jor, that he was specially made the 
bearer of the colors he had won ; and Ensign Richard 
Doubledick had risen from the ranks. Sorely cut up. in 
every battle, but always reinforced by the bravest of 
men, — for the fame of following the old colors, shot 
through and through, which Ensign Richard Double- 
dick had saved, inspired all breasts, — this regiment 
fought its way through the Peninsular war, up to the 
investment of Badajos in eighteen hundred and twelve. 
Again and again it had been cheered through the British 
ranks until the tears had sprung into men's eyes at the 
mere hearing of the mighty British voice so exultant in 
their valor; and there was not a drummer-boy but knew 
the legend, that wherever the two friends, Major Taunton, 
with the dark, bright eyes, and Ensign Richard Double- 
dick, who was devoted to him, were seen to go, there the 
boldest spirits in the English army became wild to fol- 
low. One day, at Badajos, — not in the great storming, 
but in repelling a hot sally of the besieged upon our 
men at work in the trenches, who had given way, — the 
two officers found themselves hurrying forward, face to 
face, against a party of French infantry, who made a 
stand. There was an officer at their head, encouraging 
his men,— a courageous, handsome, gallant officer of five- 
and-thirty, whom Doubledick saw hurriedly, almost 
momentarily, but saw well. He particularly noticed this 
officer waving his sword, and rallying his men with an 
eager and excited cry, when they fired in obedience to 
his gesture, and Major Taunton dropped. It was over in 
ten minutes more, and Doubledick returned to the spot 
where he had laid the best friend man ever had., on a 
coat spread upon the wet clay. Major Taunton's uniform 



64 SELECTIONS. 

was opened at the breast, and on his shirt were three 
little spots of blood. 

" Dear Doubledick," said he, " I am dying." 

" For the love of Heaven, no !" exclaimed the other, 
kneeling down beside him and passing his arm around 
his neck to raise his head. " Taunton ! My preserver, 
my guardian angel, my witness ! Dearest, truest, kind- 
est of human beings ! Taunton ! For God's sake !" 

The bright, dark eyes — so very, very dark now, in the 
pale face — smiled upon him ; and the hand he had 
kissed thirteen years ago laid itself fondly on his breast. 

" Write to my mother. You will see home again. Tell 
her how we became friends. It will comfort her, as it 
comforts me.' 1 

He spoke no more, but faintly signed for a moment 
towards his hair as it fluttered in the wind. The Ensign 
understood him. He smiled again when he saw that, 
and, gently turning his face over on the supporting arm 
as if for rest, died, with his hand upon the breast in 
which he had revived a soul. No dry eye looked on 
Ensign Richard Doubledick that melancholy day. He 
buried his friend on the field, and became a lone, be- 
reaved man. Beyond his duty he appeared to have but 
two remaining cares in life, — one, to preserve the little 
packet of hair he was to give to Taunton's mother ; the 
other, to encounter that French officer who had rallied 
the men under whose fire Taunton fell. A new legend 
now began to circulate among our troops ; and it was 
that when he and the French officer came face to face 
once more, there would be weeping in France. 



SELECTIONS. 65 

THE BLACK EEGIMENT. 

Port Hudson, May 27, 1863. 

Dark as the clouds of even, 
Kanked in the western heaven, 
Waiting the breath that lifts 
All the dread mass, and drifts 
Tempest and falling brand 
Over a ruined land ; — 
So still and orderly, 
Arm to arm, knee to knee, 
Waiting the great event 
Stands the black regiment. 

Down the long dusky line 
Teeth gleam and eye-balls shine ; 
And the bright bayonet, 
Bristling, and firmly set, 
Flashed with a purpose grand, 
Long ere the sharp command 
Of the fierce rolling drum 
Told them their time had come — 
Told them what work was sent 
For the black regiment. 

" Now," the flag-sergeant cried, 
" Though death and hell betide, 
Let the whole nation see 
If we are fit to be free 
In this land ; or bound 
Down like the whining hound, — 
Bound with red stripes of pain 
In our cold chains again !" 
Oh ! what a shout there went 
From the black regiment ! 



06 SELECTIONS. 

" Charge !" Trump and drum awoke \ 
Onward the bondmen broke : 
Bayonet and sabre stroke 
Vainly opposed their rush, 
Through the wild battle's crush, 
With but one thought aflush, 
Driving their lords like chaff, 
In the gun's mouths they laugh ; 
Or at the slippery brands 
Leaping with open hands, 
Down they tear man and horse, 
Down in their awful course ; 
Trampling with bloody heel 
Over the crashing steel, — 
All their eyes forward bent, 
Rushed the black regiment. 

" Freedom !" their battle-cry,— 
" Freedom ! or leave to die !" 
Ah ! and they meant the word, 
Not as with us 'tis heard, 
Not a mere party shout : 
They gave their spirits out ; 
Trusted the end to God, 
And on the gory sod 
Rolled in triumphant blood, 
Glad to strike one free blow, 
Whether for weal or woe ; 
Glad to breathe one free breath, 
Though on the lips of death. 
Praying — alas ! in vain ! — 
That they might fall again, 
So they could once more see 
That burst to liberty ! 
This was what freedom lent 
To the black regiment. 



SELECTIONS. 67 

Hundreds on hundreds fell ; 

But they are resting well ; 

Scourges and shackles strong 

Never shall do them wrong. 

Oh, to the living few, 

Soldiers, be just and true ! 

Hail them as comrades tried ; 

Fight with them side by side ; 

Never in field or tent, 

Scorn the black regiment. — George H. Boher. 



THE TELL TALE HEAET. 

Teue ! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had 
been and am; but why -will you say that I am mad? 
The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed— 
not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing 
acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. 
I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? 
Hearken! and observe how healthily — how calmly I can 
tell you the whole story. 

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my 
brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. 
Object there was none. Passion there was none. I 
loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He 
had never given me insult. For his gold I had no 
desire. I think it was his eye ! yes, it was this ! One of 
his eyes resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue eye, 
with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my 
blood ran cold; and so, by degrees — very gradually — I 
made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and 
thus rid myself of the eye for ever. 

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen 



68 SELECTIONS. 

know nothing. But you should have seen me. You 
should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what 
caution — with what foresight — with what dissimulation 
I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man 
than during the whole week before I killed him. And 
every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his 
door and opened it — oh, so gently! And then, when I 
had made an opening sufficient for my head. I put in a 
dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone 
out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have 
laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved 
it slowly — very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb 
the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my 
whole head within the opening so far that I could see 
him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! — would a madman 
have been so wise as this? And then, when my head 
was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously — 
oh, so cautiously— cautiously (for the hinges creaked) — 
I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon 
the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights — 
every night just at midnight--but I found the eye 
always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; 
for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil 
Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went 
boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to 
him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquir- 
ing how he had passed the night. So you see he would 
have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect 
that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him 
while he slept. 

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually 
cautions in opening the door. A watch's minute 
hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before 
that night, had I felt the extent of my own powers — of 
my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of 



SELECTIONS. .69 

triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, 
little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret 
deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and 
perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed sud- 
denly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew 
back — but no. His room was as black as pitch with the 
thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, 
through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not 
see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on 
steadily, steadily. 

I had mv head in, and was about to open the lantern, 
when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the 
old man sprang up in the bed, crying out — "Who's 
there." 

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour 
I did not move a muscle, and in the mean time I did 
not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the 
bed, listening; — just as I have done, night after night, 
hearkening to the death watches in the wall. 

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was 
the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain 
or of grief — oh, no ! — it was the low stifled sound that 
arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged, 
with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just 
at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up 
from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, 
the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. 1 
knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I 
chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying 
awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had 
turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since 
growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them 
causeless, but could not. He had been saying to 
himself — "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney — 
it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "it is merely a 



70 SELECTIONS. 

cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had 
been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: 
but he found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in 
approaching him, had stalked with his black shadow 
before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the 
mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that 
caused him to feel — although he neither saw nor heard — 
to feel the presence of my head within the room. 

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, with- 
out hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little — a 
very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — 
you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily— until, at 
length, a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, 
shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye. 

It was open — wide, wide open — and I grew furious as 
I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness — all 
a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the 
very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else 
of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the 
ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. 

And now have I not told you that what you mistake 
for madness is but over acuteness of the senses ? — now, 
I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, 
such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I 
knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the 
old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating 
of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. 

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely 
breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how 
steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Mean- 
time the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew 
quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every 
instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! 
It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! — do you 
mark me well ? I have told you that I am nervous : so I 



SELECTIONS. 71 

am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the 
dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as 
this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some 
minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the 
beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must 
burst. And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound 
would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour 
had come ! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern 
and leaped into the room. He shrieked once — once 
only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and 
pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to 
find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the 
heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did 
not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. As 
length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed 
the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, 
stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held 
it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He 
was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. 

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer 
when I describe the wise precautions I took for the con- 
cealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked 
hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the 
corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. 

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the 
chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I 
then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that 
no human eye — not even his— could have detected any 
thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out— no stain 
of any kind — no blood-spot whatever. I had been too 
wary for that. A tub had caught all — ha! ha! 

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four 
o'clock— still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded 
the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I 
went down to open it with a light heart, — for what had I 



SELECTIONS. 



now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced 
themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. 
A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the 
night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused: informa- 
tion had been lodged at the police office, and they (the 
officers) had been deputed to search the premises. 

I smiled, — for -what had I to fear? I bade the gentle- 
men welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a 
dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the 
country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade 
them search — search well. I led them, at length, to hh 
chamber, I showed them his treasures, secure, undis- 
turbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought 
chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from 
their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of 
my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very 
spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. 

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced 
them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I 
answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, 
ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them 
gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my 
ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing 
became more distinct: — it continued and became more 
distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling : 
but it continued and gained definitiveness— until, at 
length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. 

No doubt I now grew very pale; — but I talked more 
fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound 
increased — and what could I do ? It was a low, dull, 
quick sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when 
enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath— and yet the 
officers heard it not. I talked more quickly — more 
vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose 
and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent 



SELECTIONS, 73 

gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why 
■would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro 
with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the obser- 
vations of the men — but the noise steadily increased. 
Oh God ! what could I do ? I foamed — I raved — I swore! 
I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and 
grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all 
and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — 
louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. 
Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, 
no! They heard! — they suspected! — they knew !— they 
were making a mockery of my horror ! — this I thought, 
and this I think. But anything was better than this 
agony ! Anything was more tolerable than this derision ! 
I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt 
that I must scream or die! — and now — again! hark! 
louder! louder! louder! louder ! — 

"Villians!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit 
the deed. — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the 
beating of his hideous heart!" — E. A, Pot. 



DBUNKABDS NOT ALL BEUTES. 

I said when I began, that I was a trophy of this move- 
ment, and therefore the principal part of my work has 
been (not ignoring other parts, ) in behalf of those who 
have suffered as I have suffered. You know there is a 
great deal said about the reckless victims of this foe 
being " brutes." No, they are not brutes. I have 
labored for about eighteen years among them, and I never 
have found a brute. I have had men swear at me ; I 
have had a man dance around me as if possessed of a 
devil, and spit his foam in my face ; but he is not a 



74 SELECTIONS. 

brute. I think it is Charles Dickens who says: "Away 
up a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, 
easily passed by, there is a door, and on that door is 
written, " woman.' " And so in the heart of the vile 
outcast, away up a great many pair of stairs, in a very 
remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door on which 
is written " man." Here is our business to find that door. 
It may take time ; but begin and knock. Don't get 
tired ; but remember God's long suffering for us and 
keep knocking a long time if need be. Don't get weary 
if there is no answer ; remember him whose locks were 
wet with dew. Knock on — just try it — you try it ; and 
just so sure as you do, just so sure, by and by, will the 
quivering lip and starting tear tell you have knocked at 
the heart of a man and not of a brute. It is because 
these poor wretches are men, and not brutes that we have 
hopes of them. They said " he is a brute — let him 
alone." I took him home with me and kept the "brute" 
fourteen days and nights, through his delirium ; and he 
nearly frightened Mary out of her wits, once, chasing 
her about the house with a boot in his hand. But she 
recovered her wits, and he recovered his. He said to 
me, "You wouldn't think I had a wife and child ?" 
" Well, I shouldn't." " I have, and —God bless her little 
heart — my little Mary is as pretty a little thing as ever 
stepped," said the " brute." I asked, " where do they 
live ?" " They live two miles away from here." " When 
did you see them last ?" "About two years ago." Then 
he told me his story. I said, "you must go back to your 
home again." " I mustn't go back — I won't — my wife 
is better without me than with me ! I will not go back 
any more ; I have knocked her and kicked her and 
abused her ; do you suppose I will go back again ?" I 
went to the house with him ; I knocked at the door and 
his wife opened it. "Is this Mrs. Eichardson?" "Yes, 



SELECTIONS. V 

sir." " Well, that is Mr. Richardson. And Mr. Rich- 
ardson, that is Mrs. Richardson. Now come into the 
house." 

They went in. The wife sat on one side of the room 
and the " brute" on the other. I waited to see who 
would speak first ; and it was the woman. But before 
she spoke she fidgeted a good deal . She pulled her 
apron till she got hold of the hem, and then she pulled 
it down again. Then she folded it up closely, and 
jerked it out through her fingers an inch at a time, and 
then she spread it all down again ; and then she looked 
all about the room and said, '' Well, William ?" And the 
"brute" said, "Well, Mary?" He had a large handker- 
chief round his neck, and she said, "You had better take 
the handkerchief off, William ; you'll need it when you 
go out." He began to fumble about it. The knot was 
large enough ; he could have untied it if he liked ; but 
he said, "Will you untie it, Mary?" and she worked 
away at it ; but her fingers were clumsy, and she couldn't 
get it off ; their eyes met, and the lovelight was not all 
quenched ; she opened her arms gently and he fell into 
them. If you had seen those white arms clasped about 
his neck, and he sobbing on her breast, and the child 
looking in wonder first at one and then at the other, you 
would have said "It is not a brute ; it is a man, with a 
great, big, warm heart in his breast." — John B. Gough. 



THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD. 

I'm thinking that to-night, if not before, 
There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chew ton roar ? 
It's brewing up, down westward ; and look there ! 
One of those sea gulls ! ay, there goes a pair ! 
And such a sudden thaw ! If rain comes on, 




7 b SELECTIONS. 

As threats, the waters will be out anon. 
That path by the ford is a nasty bit of way : 
Best let the young ones bide from school to-day. 

The children join in this request ; but the mother 
resolves that they shall set out — the two girls, Lizzie 
and Jenny, the one five, the other seven. As the dame's 
will was law, so — 

One last fond kiss — 

11 God bless my little maids," the father said, 

And cheerily went his way to win their bread. 

Prepared for their journey they depart, with the moth- 
er's admonition to the elder — 

" Now, mind and bring 

Jenny safe home," the mother said. " Don't stay 

To pull a bough or berry by the way ; 

And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast 

Your little sister's hand till your quite past ; 

That plank is so crazy and so slippery, 

If not overflowed, the stepping-stones will be : 

But you're good children— steady as old folk, 

I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzie's cloak 

( A good gray duffle ) lovingly she tied, 

And amply little Jenny's lack supplied 

With her own warmest shawl. " Be sure," said she, 

" To wrap it round and knot it carefully, 

( Like this ) when you come home — just leaving free 

One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away — 

Good will to school, and then good right to play." 

The mother watches them with foreboding, though she 
knows not why. In a little while the threatened storm 
sets in. Night comes, and with it comes the father from 
his daily toil. There's a treasure hidden in his hat — 



SELECTIONS. 77 

A plaything for his young ones, he has found 

A dormouse nest ; the living ball coil'd round 

For its long winter sleep ; all his thought, 

As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught 

But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, 

And graver Lizzie's quieter surprise, 

When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer, 

Hard won the frozen captive to their care. 

No little faces greet him as wont at the threshold ; and 
to his hurried question — 

" Are they come X " — t'was " No." 
To throw his tools down, hastily unhook 
The old crack'd lantern from its dusty nook, 
And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word, 
That almost choked him and was scarcely heard, 
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone 
To where a fearful foresight led him on. 

A neighbor goes with him, and the faithful dog follows 
the children's tracks. 

"Hold the light 

Low down : he's making for the water. Hark ! 

I know that whine ; the old dog's found them, Mark!' 

So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on 

Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone ! 

And-all his dull, contracted light could show 

Was the black void, and dark, swollen stream below ; 

"Yet there's life somewhere — more than Tinker's, 

whine — 
That's sure," said Mark. " So, let the lantern shine 
Down yonder. There's the dog — and hark !" 
"Odear!" 

And a low sob come faintly on the ear, 
Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought 



78 SELECTIONS. 

Into the stream leaped Ambrose, where he caught 

Fast hold of something, — a dark, huddled heap, — 

Half in the water where 'twas scarce knee deep 

For a tall man, and half above it, propped 

By some old ragged side-piles that had stop't 

Endways the broken plank when it gave way 

With the two little ones, that luckless day ! 

" My babes ! my lambkins !" was the father's cry. 

One little voice made answer, " Here am I." 

'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouched, with face as white, 

More ghastly, by the flickering lantern light, 

Than sheeted corpse. The pale, blue lips drawn tight, 

Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, 

And eyes on some dark object underneath, 

Washed by the turbid waters, fix'd like stone — 

One arm and hand stretched out and rigid grown, 

Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock. 

There she lay, drown' d. 

They lifted her from out her watery bed ; — 

Its covering gone, the lovely little head 

Hung like a broken snow-drop, all aside, 

And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied, 

Leaving that free, about the child's small form, 

As was her last injunction — '' fast and warm." 

Too well obeyed — too fast ! A fatal hold 

Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold 

That caught and pinned her to the river's bed ; 

While, through the wreckless water overhead, 

Her life breath bubbled up. 

" She might have lived, 

Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived 

The wretched mother's heart when she heard all, 

" But for my foolishness about that shawl." 

" Who says I forgot ? 

Mother ! indeed, indeed I kept fast hold, 






SELECTIONS. 79 

And tied the shawl quit close — she 
Can't be cold — 

But she won't move — we slept — I don't know how — 
But I held on, and I'm so weary now — 
And its so dark and cold ! Oh dear ! oh dear ! 
And she won't move — if father were but here !" 
All night long from side to side she turned, 
Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, 
With now and then the murmur, " She won't move.'' 
And io ! when morning, as in mockery bright 
Shone on that pillow — passing strange the sight, 
The young head's raven hair was streaked with white ! 

Mrs. Southey. 



BOUND TO HAVE IT. 

A Philadelphia book agent importuned James Watson, 
a rich and close New York man, living out at Elizabeth, 
until he bought a book — the "Early Christian Martyrs." 
Mr. Watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to 
get rid of the agent; then taking it under his arm, he 
started for the train which takes him to his New York 
office. '"> 

Mr. Watson hadn't been gone long before Mrs. 
Watson came home from a neighbqrs. The book agent 
saw her, and went in and persuaded the wife to buy 
another copy of the same book. She was ignorant of 
the fact that her husband had bought the same book in 
the morning. When Mr. Watson came back from New 
York at night, Mrs. Watson showed him the book. 

" I don't want to see it," said Watson, frowning terri- 
bly. 

"Why, husband?" asked his wife. 



SELECTIONS. 



" Because that rascally book agent sold me the same 
book this morning. Now we've got two copies of the 
same book — two copies of the ' Early Christian Martyrs,' 
and " 

"But, husband, we can " 

" No we can't, either," interrupted Mr. Watson. " The 
man is off on the train before this. Confound it! I could 
kill the fellow. I " 

"Why, there he goes to the depot, now," said Mrs. 
Watson, pointing out of the window at the retreating 
form of the book agent, who was making for the train. 

" But it's too late to catch him, and I'm not dressed. 
I've taken off my boots, and " 

Just then Mr. Stevens, a neighbor of Mr. Watson, 
drove by, when Watson pounded on the window-pane, 
in a frantic manner, almost frightening the horse. 

"Here, SteveDS," he shouted, "you're hitched up; 
won't you run your horse down to the train and hold 
that book agent till I come? Run! Catch 'im now!" 

"All right," said Mr. Stevens, whipping up his horse 
and tearing down the road. 

Mr. Stevens reached the train just as the conductor 
shouted " all aboard." 

"Book agent," he yelled, as the book agent stepped 
on to the train. "Book agent, hold on! Mr. Watson 
wants to see you." 

"Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the 
seemingly puzzled book agent. " Oh, I know what he 
wants; he wants to buy one of my books; but I can't 
miss the train to sell it to him." 

"If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it 
back. How much is it ? 

" Two dollars for the Early Christian Martyrs," said 
the book agent, as he reached for the money and passed 
the book out through the car window. 



SELECTIONS. 81 

Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, 
in his shirt-sleeves. As he saw the train pull out, he 
was too full for utterance. 

" Well, I got it for you," said Stevens, "just got it, and 
that's all " 

"Got what?" yelled Watson. 

" Why, I got the book— 'Early Christian Martyrs' " 

" By — the — great — guns J " moaned Watson, as he 
placed his hand to his brow, and swooned right in the 
middle of the street. 



REST. 

My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired— 

My soul oppressed; 
And with desire have I long desired 

Eest — only rest. 

'Tis hard to toil, when toil is almost vain, 

In barren ways; 
'Tis hard to sow, and never garner grain 

In harvest days. 

The burden of my days is hard to bear, 

But God knows best; 
And I have prayed — but vain has been my prayer- 

For rest — sweet rest. 

'Tis hard to plant in spring, and never reap 

The autumn yield; 
'Tis hard to till, and when 'tis tilled to weep 

O'er fruitless field. 

And so I cry, a weak and human cry, 

So heart oppressed; 
And so I sigh, a weak and human sigh, 

For rest — rest. 



S'Z SELECTIONS. 

My way has wound across the desert years, 

And cares infest 
My path; and through the flowing of hot tears 

I pine for rest. 

'Twas always so; when still a child I laid 

On mother's breast 
My wearied little head, e'en then I prayed, 

As now, for rest. 

And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er, 

For, down the west, 
Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore 

Where I shall rest. 

Father Ryan. 



THE BENEDICTION. 

It was in eighteen hundred — yes — and nine, 

That we took Saragossa. What a day 

Of untold horrors ! I was Sergeant then, 

The city carried, we laid siege to houses, 

All shut up close, and with a treacherous look 

Raining down shots upon us from the windows. 

"'Tis the priest's doing!" was the word passed round; 

So that although since daybreak under arms — 

Our eyes with powder smarting, and our mouths 

Bitter with kissing cartridge ends — piff! paff! 

Rattled the musketry with ready aim, 

If shoveled hat and long black cloak were seen 

Flying in the distance. Up a narrow street 

My company worked on. I kept an eye 

On every house-top, right and left, and saw 

From many a roof flames suddenly burst forth, 



SELECTIONS. 83 

Coloring the sky, as from the chimney tops 

Among the forges. Low our fellows stooped, 

Entering the low-pitched dens. When they came out, 

With bayonets dripping red, their bloody fingers 

Signed crosses on the wall; for we were bound 

In such a dangerous defile not to leave 

Foes lurking in our rear. There was no drum beat, 

No ordered march. Our officers looked grave; 

The rank and file uneasy, jogging elbows 

As do recruits when flinching. 

All at once, 
Rounding a corner, we are hailed in French 
With cries for help. At double-quick we join 
Our hard-pressed comrades. They were grenadiers, 
A gallant company, but beaten back 
Inglorious from the raised and flag-paved square 
Fronting a convent. Twenty stalwart monks 
Defend it — black demons with shaved crowns, 
The cross in white embroider'd on their frocks, 
Barefoot, their sleeves tucked up, their only weapons 
Enormous crucifixes, so well brandished, 
Our men went down before them. By platoons 
Firing, we swept the place; in fact, we slaughtered 
This terrible group of heroes, no more soul 
Being in us than in executioners. 
The foul deed done — deliberately done — 
And the thick smoke rolled away, we noted 
Under the huddled masses of the dead 
Rivulets of blood run trinkling down the steps; 
While in the background solemnly the church 
Loomed up, its doors wide open. We went in. 
It was a desert. Lighted tapers starred 
The inner gloom with points of gold. The incense 
Gave out its perfume. At the upper end, 
Turning to the altar as though unconcerned 



84 



SELECTIONS. 



In the fierce battle that had raged, a priest, 
White-haired and tall of stature, to a close 
Was bringing tranquilly the mass. So stamped 
Upon my memory is that thrilling scene 
That, as I speak, it comes before me now — 
The convent built in old time by the Moors ; 
The huge brown corpses of the monks; the sun 
Making the red blood on the pavement steam; 
And there, framed in by the low porch, the priest ; 
And there the altar brilliant as a shrine; 
And here ourselves, all halting, hesitating, 
Almost afraid. 

I, certes, in those days 
Was a confirmed blasphemer. r Tis on record 
That once, by way of sacrilegious joke, 
A chapel being sacked, I lit my pipe 
At a wax candle burning on the altar. 
This time, however, I was awed — so blanched 
Was that old man ! 

"Shoot him!" our Captain cried. 
Not a soul budged. The priest, beyond all doubt, 
Heard ; but as though he heard not. Turning round, 
He faced us, with the elevated Host, 
Having that period of the service reached 
When on the faithful benediction falls. 
His lifted arms seemed as the spread of wings; 
And as he raised the pyx, and in the air 
With it described the Cross, each man of us 
Fell back, aware the priest no more was trembling 
Than if before him the devout were ranged. 
But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice, 
The words came to us 

Vos benedicat 
Deus Omnipotens! 



SELECTIONS. 85 

The Captain's order 
Rang out again sharply, " Shoot him down, 
Or I shall swear! " Then one of us, a dastard, 
Leveled his gun and fired . Upstanding still, 
The priest changed color, though with steadfast look 
Set upwards, and indomitably stern 
Pater et Filius! 

Came the words. What frenzy — 
What maddening thirst for blood, sent from our ranks 
Another shofc, I know not; but 'twas done. 

The monk with one hand on the altar's ledge 
Held himself up ; and strenous to complete 
His benediction, in the other raised 
The consecrated host. For the third time 
Tracing in air the symbol of forgiveness, 
With eyes closed, and in tones exceeding low, 
But in the general hush distinctly heard, 
Et Sanctus Sphitus! 

He said; and, ending 
His service, fell down dead. 

The golden pyx 
Rolled bounding on the floor. Then, as we stood, 
Even the old troopers, with our muskets grounded, 
And choking horror in our hearts, at sight 
Of such a shameless murder and at sight 
Of such a martyr, with a chuckling laugh, 
Amen! 

Drawled out a drummer boy. 

Macmillan's Magazine. 



8G SELECTIONS. 

YOU PUT NO FLOWEES ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE. 

With sable-draped banners, and slow measured tread, 
The flower-laden ranks pass the gates of the dead ; 
And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests, 
Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom on his breast. 

Ended at last is the labor of love ; 
Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move — 
A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, 
Falls low on f he ear of the battle-scarred chief ; 
Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child 
Besought him in accents which grief rendered wild : 

" Oh ! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave — 
Why ! why ! did you pass by my dear papa's grave ? 
I know he was poor, but as kind and as true 
As ever marched into the battle with you — 
His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, 
You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not ! 
For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, 
And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. 
He didn't die lowly — he poured his heart's blood, 
In rich crimson streams from the top-crowning sod 
Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight — 
And died shouting ' Onward ! for God and the right !' 
O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, 
But you haven't put one on my papa's grave. 
If mamma were here — but she lies by his side, 
Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died." 

" Battalion I file left ! countermarch !" cried the chief." 

"This young orphan'd maid hath full cause for her grief." 

Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, 

He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate 

The long line repasses, and many an eye 

Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. 



SELECTIONS, bV 

"This way, it is — here, sir — right under this tree ; 
They lie close together, with just room for me." 

«' Halt ! Cover with roses each lowly green mound — 
A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground.' : 

" Oh ! thank you, kind sir ! I ne'er can repay 

The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day ; 

But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, 

'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. 

I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma, too — 

I dreamed so last night and I know 'twill come true ; 

And they will both bless you, I know, when I say 

How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day — 

How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed it to rest, 

And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast; 

And when the kind angels shall call you to come, 

We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home, 

"Where death never comes, his black banners to wave, 

And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave." 

C. E. L. Holmes. 



PATRIOTISM. 

Bereft of patriotism, the heart of a nation will be cold 
and cramped and sordid ; the arts will have no enduring 
impulse, and commerce no invigorating soul ; society will 
degenerate, and the mean and vicious triumph. Patriot- 
ism is not a wild and glittering passion, but a glorious 
reality. The virtue that gave to Paganism its dazzlirg 
lustre, to Barbarism its redeeming trait, to Christianity 
its heroic form, is not dead. It still lives to console, to 
sanctify humanity. It has its altar in every clime — its 
worship and festivities. 

On the heathered hills of Scotland the sword of Wal- 



88 SELECTIONS. 

lace is yet a bright tradition. The genius of France, in 
the brilliant literature of the day, pays its high homage 
to the piety and heroism of the young Maid of Orleans. 
In her new Senate-Hall, England bids her sculptor place, 
among the effigies of her greatest sons, the images of 
Hampden and of Eussell. In the gay and graceful capi- 
tal of Belgium, the daring hand of Geefs has reared a 
monument, full of glorious meaning, to the three hun- 
dred martyrs of the revolution. 

By the soft, blue waters of Lake Lucerne stands the 
chapel of William Tell. On the anniversary of his revolt 
and victory, across those waters, as they glitter in the 
July sun, skim the light boats of the allied cantons. 
From the prows hang the banners of the republic, and, 
as they near the sacred spot, the daughters of Lucerne 
chant the hymns of their old poetic land. Then bursts 
forth the glad Te Deum, and Heaven again hears the 
voice of that wild chivalry of the mountains which, five 
centuries since, pierced the white eagle of Vienna, and 
flung it bleeding on the rocks of Uri. 

At Innspruck, in the black aisle of the old cathedral, 
the peasant of the Tyrol kneels before the statue of An- 
dreas Hofer. In the defiles and valleys of the Tyrol, 
who forgets the day on which he fell within the walls of 
Mantua ? It is a festive day all through this quiet, noble 
land. In that old cathedral his inspiring memory is re- 
called amid the pageantries of the altar — his image 
appears in every house — his victories and virtues are 
proclaimed in the songs of the people — and when the 
sun goes down, a chain of fires, in the deep red light of 
which the the eagle spreads his wings and holds his gid- 
dy revelry, proclaims the glory of the chief, whose blood 
has made his native land a sainted spot in Europe. Shall 
not all join in this glorious worship? Shall not all have 
the faith, the duties, the festivities of patriotism? — T. F. 
Meagher. 



SELECTIONS. 89 



EXAMPLES FOE IEELAND. 

Other nations, with abilities far less eminent than 
those which you possess, having great difficulties to en- 
counter, have obeyed with heroism the commandment 
from which you have swerved, maintaining that noble 
order of existence, through which even the poorest state 
becomes an instructive chapter in the great history of the 
world. 

Shame upon you ! Switzerland — without a colony, 
without a gun upon the seas, without a helping hand 
from any court in Europe — has held for centuries her 
footing on the Alps — spite of the avalanche, has bid her 
little territory sustain, in peace and plenty, the children 
to whom she has given birth — has trained those children 
up in the arts that contribute most to the security, the 
joy, the dignity of life — has taught them to depend upon 
themselves, and for their fortune to be thankful to no 
officious stranger — and, though a blood-red cloud is 
breaking over one of her brightest lakes, whatever plague 
it may portend, be assured of this — the cap of foreign 
despotism will never again gleam in the market-place of 
Altorff ! 

Shame upon you ! Norway — with her scanty popula- 
tion, scarce a million strong — has kept her flag upon the 
Oattegat — has reared a race of gallant soldiers to guard 
her frozen soil — year after year has nursed upon that 
soil a harvest to which the Swede can lay no claim — has 
saved her ancient laws — and to the spirit of her frank 
and hardy sons commits the freedom which she rescued 
from the allied swords, when they hacked her crown at 
Frederickstadt ! 

Shame upon you ! Greece — " whom Goth, nor Turk, 
nor Time hath spared not " — has flung the crescent from 
the Acropolis — has crowned a King in Athens whom she 



90 SELECTIONS. 

calls her own — has taught you that a nation should 
never die — that not for an idle pageant has the blood of 
heroes flowed — that not to vex a school-boy's brain, nor 
smoulder in a heap of learned dust, has the fire of heav- 
en issued from the tribune's tongue ! 

Shame upon you ! Holland — with the ocean as her 
foe — from the swamp in which you would have sunk your 
graves, has bid the palace, and the warehouse costlier 
than the palace, rear their ponderous shapes above the 
waves that battle at their base — has outstripped the 
merchant of the Rialto — has threatened England in the 
Thames — has swept the channel with her broom — and, 
though for a day she reeled before the bayonets of Du- 
mouriez, she sprang to her feet again and struck the tri- 
color from her dykes ! 

And you — you, who are eight millions strong — you, 
who boast at every meeting that this island is the finest 
which the sun looks down upon — you, who have no 
threatening sea to stem, no avalanche to dread — you, 
who say that you could shield along your coast a thous- 
and sail, and be the princes of a mighty commerce — 
you, who by the magic of an honest hand, beneath each 
summer sky, might cull a plenteous harvest from your 
soil, and with your sickle strike away the scythe of death 
— you. who have no vulgar history to read — you, who 
can trace, from field to field, the evidences of civilization 
older than the Conquest — the relics of a religion far 
more ancient than the Gospel — you, who have thus been 
blessed, thus been gifted, thus been prompted to what is 
wise and generous and great — you will make no effort — 
you will whine, and beg, and skulk, in sores and rags, upon 
this favored land — you will congregate in drowsy councils, 
and then, when the very earth is loosening beneath your 
feet, you will bid a prosperous voyage to your last grain of 
corn — you will be beggared by the million — you will per- 



SELECTIONS. 91 

ish by the thousand, and the finest island which the sun 
looks down upon, amid the jeers and hootings of the 
world, will blacken into a plague-spot, a wilderness, a 
sepulchre. — T. F. Meagher. 



MoLAINE'S CHILD. 

" McLaine ! you've scourged me like a hound ;- 
You should have struck me to the ground ; 
You should have played a chieftain's part ; 
You should have stabbed me to the heart. 

" You should have crushed me unto death ; — 
But here I swear with living breath, 
That for this wrong which you have done, 
I'll wreak my vengeance on your son, — 

" On him, and you, and all your race !" 
He said, and bounding from his place, 
He seized the child with sudden hold — 
A smiling infant, three years old — 

And starting like a hunted stag, 
He scaled the rock, he clomb the crag, 
And reached, o'er many a wide abyss, 
The beetling seaward precipice ; 

And leaning o'er its topmost ledge, 
He held the infant o'er the edge : — 
" In vain the wrath, thy sorrow vain ; 
No hand shall save it, proud McLaine !" 

With flashing eye and burning brow, 
The mother followed, heedless how, 
O'er crags with mosses overgrown, 
And stair-like juts of slippery stone. 



92 SELECTIONS. 

But midway up the rugged steep, 
She found a chasm she could not leap, 
And kneeling on its brink, she raised 
Her supplicating hands and gazed. 

" O, spare my child, my joy, my pride ! 
O, give me back my child !" she cried : 
" My child ! my child !" with sobs and tears, 
She shrieked upon his callous ears. 

"Come, Evan," said the trembling chief, — 
His bosom wrung with pride and grief, — 
" Eestore the boy, give back my son, 
And I'll forgive the wrong you've done." 

" I scorn forgiveness, haughty man ! 
You've injured me before the clan ; 
And nought but blood shall wipe away 
The shame I have endured to-day." 

And as he spoke he raised the child, 
To dash it 'mid the breakers wild, 
Bat, at the mother's piercing cry, 
Drew back a step, and made reply : — 

" Fair lady, if your lord will strip, 
And let a clansman wield the whip, 
Till skin shall flay, and blood shall run, 
I'll give you back your little son." 

The lady's cheek grew pale with ire, 

The chieftain's eyes flashed sudden fire ; 

He drew a pistol from his breast, 

Took aim, — then dropped it, sore distressed. 

" I might have slain my babe instead. 
Come, Evan, come," the father said, 
And through his heart a tremor ran ; 
"We'll fight our quarrel man to man." 



SELLCTIONS. 93 

" Wrong unavenged I've never borne," 
Said Evan, speaking loud in scorn ; 
" You've heard my answer, proud McLaine : 
I will not fight you, — think again." 

The lady stood in mute despair, 
With freezing blood and stiffening hair ; 
She moved no limb, she spoke no word ; — 
She could but look upon her lord. 

He saw the quivering of her eye, 
Pale lips and speechless agony, — 
And, doing battle with his pride, 
" Give back the boy, — I yield," he cried. 

A storm of passions shook his mind — 
Anger and shame and love combined ; 
But love prevailed, and bending low, 
He bared his shoulders to the blow. 

" I smite you," said the clansman true ; 
" Forgive me, chief, the deed I do ! 
For by yon Heaven that hears me speak, 
My dirk in Evan's heart shall reek !" 

But Evan's face beamed hate and joy ; 
Close to his breast he hugged the boy : 
" Kevenge is just, revenge is sweet, 
And mine, Lochbuy, shall be complete." 

Ere hand could stir, with sudden shock, 
He threw the infant o'er the rock, 
Then followed, with a desperate leap, 
Down fifty fathoms to the deep. 

They found their bodies in the tide ; 
And never till the day she died 
Was that sad mother known to smile — 
The Niobe of Mulla's isle. 



94 SELECTIONS. 

They dragged false Evan from the sea, 
And hanged him on a gallows tree ; 
And ravens fattened on his brain, 
To sate the vengeance of McLaine. 

Charles Mackay. 



THE PORTRAIT 

Midnight past! Not a sound of aught 

Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers; 
I sat by the dying fire, and thought 

Of the dear dead woman up stairs. 

A night of tears! for the gusty rain 

Had ceased, but the eves were dripping yet; 

And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, 
With her face all white and wet. 

Nobody with me my watch to keep 
But the friend of my bosom, the man I love r 

And grief had sent him fast to sleep 
In the chamber up above. 

Nobody else, in the country place 

All round, that knew of my loss beside, 
But the good young priest with the Raphael-face, 

Who confessed her when she died. 

That good young priest is of gentle nerve. 

And my grief had moved him beyond control, 

For his lips grew white as I could observe, 
When he speeded her parting soul. 

I sat by the dreary hearth alone ; 

I thought of the pleasant days of yore ; 
I said, " The staff of my life is gone, 

The woman I loved is no more. 



SELECTIONS. 95 

On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, 
Which next to her heart she used to wear — 
Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes 
When my own face was not there. 

" It is set all around with rubies red, 

And pearls which a Peri might have kept ; 

For each ruby there my heart hath bled, 
For each pearl my eyes hath wept." 

And I said " The thing is precious to me ; 

They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay ; 
It lies on her heart and lost must be 

If I do not take it away." 

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, 

And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, 

Till into the chamber of death I came, 
Where she lay all in white. 

The moon shone over her winding sheet ; 

There stark she lay on her carven bed ; 
Seven burning tapers about her feet, 

And seven about her head. 

As I stretched my hand I held my breath ; 

I turned as I drew the curtains apart : 
I dared not look on the face of death: 

I knew where to find her heart. 

I thought at first as my touch fell there 
It had warmed that heart to life, with love ; 

For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, 
And I could feel it move. 

'Twas the hand of a man that was moving slow 
O'er the heart of the dead — from the other side, — 

And at once the sweat broke over my brow, 
" Who is robbing the corpse ?" I cried. 



96 SELECTIONS. 

Opposite me, by the tapers' light, 
The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, 

Stood over the corpse and all as white, 
And neither of us moved. 

* What do you here my friend ?" The man 
Looked first at me, and then at the dead. 

" There is a portrait here/' he began : 
" There is. It is mine," I said. 

Said the friend of my bosom, ''Yours no doubt 

The portrait was, till a month ago, 
When this suffering angel took that out, 

And placed mine there, I know." 

" This woman, she loved me well," said I. 

" A month ago" said my friend to me: 
" And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!" 

He answered, " Let us see." 

"Enough? let the dead decide ; 

And whosesoever the portrait prove, 
His shall it be when the cause is tried, — 

Where death is arraigned by love." 

We found the portrait there in its place, 

We opened it by the tapers' shine, 
The gems were all unchanged ; the face 

Was — neither his nor mine. 

" One nail drives out another, at last I 
The face of the portrait there," 1 cried, 

" Is our friend's the Raphael-faced young priest 
Who confessed her when she died." 

The setting is all of rubies red, 

And pearls which a Peri might have kept, — 
For each ruby she my heart hath bled, 

For each pearl my eyes have wept. 

Owen Meredith. 



SELECTIONS. 97 



THE DEACON'S STOKY. 

The solmn old bells in the steeple 

Are ringin '. I guess you know why, 
No ? Well, then, I'll tell you, though mostly 

It's whispered about on the sly. 
Some six weeks ago, a church meetin' 

Was called — for — nobody knew what; 
But we went, and the parson was present, 

And I don't know who or who not. 

Some twenty odd members, I calc'late, 

Which mostly was women, of course; 
Though I don't mean to say ought ag'in 'em; 

I've seen many gatherin's worse. 
There, in the front row, sat the deacons, 

The eldest was old Deacon Pry or — 
A man countin' fourscore-and-seven, 

And gin'rally full of his ire. 

Beside him, his wife, countin' fourscore, 

A kind-hearted, motherly soul; 
And next to her young Deacon Hartley, 

A good Christian man on the whole. 
Miss Parsons, a spinster of fifty, 

And long ago laid on the shelf, 
Had wedged herself next; and beside her, 

Was Deacon Monroe — that's myself. 

The meetin' was soon called to order, 

The parson looked glum as a text; 
We gazed at each other in silence, 

And silently wondered " What next ! " 
Then slowly uprose Deacon Hartley; 

His voice seemed to tremble with fear 
As he said : " Boy and man you have known me, 

My good friends, for nigh forty year. 



98 SELECTIONS. 

" And you scarce may expect a confession 

Of error from me; but — you know, 
My dearly loved wife died last Christmas, 

It's now nearly ten months ago. 
The winter went by long and lonely, 

The spring hurried forward a-pace; 
The farm- work came on, and I needed 

A woman about the old place. 

" The children were wilder than rabbits, 

And still growing worse every day; 
No help to be found in the village, 

Although I was willin' to pay. 
In fact I was nigh 'bout discouraged, 

For everything looked so forlorn; 
When good little Patience McAlpine 

Skipped into our kitchen, one morn. 

She had only run in of an errand; 

But she laughed at our miserable plight, 
And set to work, jist like a woman, 

A putting the whole place to right. 
And though her own folks were so busy, 

And illy her helpin' could spare, 
She flit in and out like a sparrow, 

And most every day she was there. 

" So the Summer went by sort o' cheerful, 

And one night my baby, my Joe, 
Seemed feverish and fretful, and woke me 

By crying at midnight, you know. 
I was tired with my day's work and sleepy, 

And couldn't no way keep him still; 
So, at last I grew angry, and spanked him, 

And then he screamed out with a will. 



SELECTIONS. 99 

" Just about then I heard a soft rapping, 

Away at the half -open door; 
And then little Patience McAlpine 

Walked shyly across the white floor. 
Says she: 'I thought Josey was cryin', 

I guess I'd best take him away. 
I knew you'd be gittin' up early 

To go to the marshes for hay, 
So I stayed here to-night to get breakfast; 

I guess he'll be quiet with me. 
Come, Josey, kiss papa, and tell him 

What a nice little man you will be ! ' 
She was stooping low over the pillow, 

And saw the big tears on his cheek; 
Her face was so close to my whiskers, 

I darsn't move, scarcely, or speak; 
Her hands were both holdin' the baby, 

Her eye by his shoulder was hid; 
But her mouth was so near and so rosy, 

I— kissed her. That's just what I did." 

Then down sat the tremblin' sinner, 

The sisters, they murmured of " shame," 
And " she shouldn't oughter a let him, 

No doubt she was mostly to blame." 
When straightway uprose Deacon Pryor, 

"Now bretherin a?id sisters," he said, 
(We knowed then that suthin' was comin', 

And all sot as still as the dead), 
You've heard brother Hartley's confession, 

And I speak for myself when I say, 
That if my wife was dead, and my children 

Were all growin' worse every day; 
And if my house needed attention, 

And Patience McAlpine had come 



100 SELECTIONS. 

And tidied the cluttered up kitchen, 

And made the place seem more like home ; 
And if I was worn out and sleepy, 

And my baby wouldn't lie still, 
But fretted and woke me at midnight, 

As babies, we know, sometimes will; 
And if Patience came in to hush him, 

And 'twas all as our good brother sez — 
I think, friends — I think I should kiss her, 

And 'bide by the consequences;" 

Then down sat the elderly deacon, 

The younger one lifted his face, 
And a smile rippled over the meetin' 

Like light in a shadowy place. 
Perhaps, then, the matronly sisters 

Remembered their far-away youth, 
Or the daughters at home by their firesides 

Shrined each in her shy, modest truth; 
For their judgement grew gentle and kindly, 

And — well — as I started to say, 
The solemn old bells in the steeple 

Are ringin' a bridal to-day. 

IV. S. Emerson. 



ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH. 

The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away 
With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as 

much as to say : 
" Come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now 

depend upon you, 
Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves 

you are sending them to. 



SELECTIONS. 101 

Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of 
the father and son, 

Think of the lover and loved one too, think of them 
doomed every one 

To fall ( as it were by your very hand ) into yon fathom- 
less ditch, 

Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, 
who now lies asleep at the switch." 

I sprang up amazed — scare knew where I stood, sleep 

had o'ermastered me so ; 
I could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep 

river dashing below, 
I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the 

tempest were fanned, 
But what was that noise in the distance ? That I could 

not understand. 
I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some 

muffled drum, 
Then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my 

very ears hum ; 
What is this light that surrounds me and seems to set 

fire to my brain? 
What whistle's that, yelling so shri]l ? Ah ! I know now ; 

it's the train. 

We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take 

root to the place ; 
So I stood — with this demon before me, its heated 

breath scorching my face ; 
Its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like 

the eyes of some witch, — 
The train was almost upon me before I remembered the 

switch. 



102 SELECTIONS. 

X sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast 
down the track ; 

The switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed hold- 
ing it back ; 

On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my 
face like a flash ; 

I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew 
nothing after the crash. 

How long I lay there unconscious 'twas impossible for 

me to tell ; 
My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a 

hell,— 
For I then heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of 

husband and wives, 
And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I 

must account for their lives ; 
Mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes glaring 

madly and wild ; 
Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief 

like a child ; 
Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they 

sped, 
And lips that could form naught but "Mamma," were 

calling for one perhaps dead. 

My mind was made up in a moment, the river should 

hide me away, 
When, under the still burning rafters I suddenly noticed 

there lay 
A little white hand : she who owned it was doubtless an 

object of love 
To one whom her loss would drive frantic, tho' she 

guarded him now from above ; 
1 tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one 

side : 



SELECTIONS. 103 

How little she thought of her journey*when she left for 

this dark fatal ride ! 
I lifted the last log from off her, and while searching 

for some spark of life, 
Turned her little face up in the starlight, and recognized 

— Maggie, my wife ! 

Lord ! thy scourge is a hard one, at a blow thou hast 

shattered my pride ; 
My life will be one endless nightmare, with Maggie 

away from my side. 
How often I'd sat down and pictured the scenes in our 

long, happy life ; 
How I'd strive through all my life time, to build up a 

home for my wife ; 
How people would envy us always in our cozy and neat 

little nest ; 
How I should do all of the labor and Maggie should all 

the day rest ; 
How one of God's blessings might cheer us, how some 

day I p'raps should be rich ; — 
But all of my dreams have been shattered, while I laid 

there asleep at the switch ! 

1 fancied I stood on my trial, the jury and judge I could 

see ; 
And every eye in the court room was steadily fixed upon 

me ; 
And fingers were pointed in scorn, till I felt my face 

blushing blood-red, 
And the next thing I heard were the words, "Hanged by 

the neck until dead." 
Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my hand 

caught tight hold of a dress, 
And I heard, " What's the matter, dear Jim ? You've 

had a bad nightmare, I guess !" 



104 



SELECTIONS. 



And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a scar from 

the ditch. 
I'd been taking a nap in my bed, and had not been 

" Asleep at the switch." 

George Hoey. 



PHAIDRICK CEOHOORE. 

Oh! Phaidrick Crohoore was the broth of a boy, and he 

stood six feet eight; 
And his arm was as round as another man's thigh — 'tis 

Phaidrick was great : 
And his hair was as black as the shadows of night, 
And hung over the scars left by many a fight; 

And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong and 

loud, 
And his eye like the lightnin' from under the cloud. 
And all the girls liked him, for he could speak civil 
And sweet when he chose it, — for he was a divil. 

An' there wasn't a girl, from thirty-five under, 
Niver a matter how cross, but he could come 'round her, 
But of all the sweet girls that smiled on him, but one 
Was the girl of his heart, an' he loved her alone. 

An' warm as the sun, as the rock firm and sure 
Was the love of the heart of Phaidrick Crohoore; 
An' he'd die for one smile from his Kathleen O'Brien, 
For his love, like his hatred, was strong as a lion. 

But Michael O'Hanlon loved Kathleen as well 
As he hated Crohoore, — deep as old ocean's swell! 
But O'Brien liked Hanlon, for they were the same parties, 
The O'Briens, O'Hanlons, an' Murphys, an' Carthys — 



SELECTIONS. 105 

An' they all went together an' hated Crohoore, 

For it's many's the batin' he gave them before: 

An' O'Hanlon made up to O'Brien, an' says he, 

" I'll marry your daughter, if you'll give her to me." 

An' the match was made up, an' Shrovetide came on, 
The company assimbled, three hundred if one — 
There was all the O'Hanlons and Murphys and Carthys 
An' the young boys an' girls av all o' them parties. 

An' the O'Briens, av coor^e, gathered strong on that day, 
An' the pipers an' fiddlers were tearin' away; 
There was roarin', an' jumpin', an' jiggin' an' flingin', 
An' jokin', an' blessin', an' kissin', an' singin'. 

An' they all were a-laughin' — why not, to be sure ? 
How O'Hanlon came inside of Phaidrick Crohoore! 
An' they all talked and laughed the length of the table, 
Aitin' an' drinkin' the while they were able; 

An' with pipin', an' fiddlin' an' roarin' like thunder, 
Your head you'd think fairly was splittin' asunder. 
And the priest called out — "Silence, ye blackguards 

agin!" 
An' he took up his prayer-book, just goin' to begin. 

And they all held their tongues from their funnin' and 

bawlin'; 
So silent you'd notice the smallest pin f allin' ! 
And the priest just beginin' to read — when the door 
Sprung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore. 

Oh ! Phaidrick Crohoore was the broth of a boy, and he 

stood six feet eight, 
An' his arm was as round as another man's thigh— 'tis 

Phaidrick was great! 
An' he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye, 
As a black cloud moves on through the stars of the sky. 



106 SELECTIONS. 

An' none strove to stop him, for Phaidrick was great, 
Till he stood all alone, just opposite the sate 
Where O'Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride, 
Were sittin' so illigant out side by side. 

An' he gave her one look that her heart almost broke, 
An' he turned to O'Brien, her father, and spoke; 
An' his voice, like the thunder, was deep, sthrong an' loud, 
An' his eyes shown like lightnin' from under the cloud: 

"I didn't come here like a tame crawlin' mouse, 
But I stand like a man in my inimy's house; 
In the field, on the road, Phaidrick never knew fear 
Of his foemen, an 1 God knows he'll not show it here. 

" So lave me at aise for three minutes or four 

To spake to the girl I'll never see more." 

An' to Kathleen he turned, and his voice changed its tone 

For he thought of the days when he called her his own. 

An' his eye blazed like lightnin' from under the cloud 
On his false-hearted girl, reproachful and proud. 
An' says he, "Kathleen bawn, is it true what I hear, 
That you marry of free choice, without threat or fear? 

"If so, spake the word, and I'll turn and depart, 
Chated once, and once only, by woman's false heart." 
Oh ! sorrow and love made the poor girl quite dumb, 
An' she tried hard to spake, but the words wouldn't come; 

For the sound of his voice, as he stood there forninther, 
Wint cold on her heart as the night wind in winther; 
An' the tears in her blue eyes stood tremblin' to flow, 
An' pale was her cheek as the moonshine on snow. 

Then the heart of bould Phaidrick swelled high in its place, 

For he knew by one look in that beautiful face, 

That the strangers an' foemen their pledged hands might 

sever, 
Her true heart was his, and his only, forever ! 



SELECTIONS. 107 

An' he lifted his voice, like the eagle's hoarse call, 

An' says Phaidrick, " She's mine still, in spite of ye all!" 

Then up jumped O'Hanlon, an' a tall boy was he, 

An' he looked on bonld Phaidrick as fierce as could be ; 

An' says he, " By the hokey, before ye go out, 
Bould Phaidrick Crohoore, you must fight for a bout." 
Then Phaidrick made answer, "I'll do my endeavor;" 
An' with one blow he stretched oat bould Hanlon forever. 

In his arms he took Kathleen an' stepped to the door, 
An' he leaped on his horse, and flung her before; 
An' they all were so bothered that not a man stirred, 
Till the gallopin' hoofs on the pavement was heard. 

Then up they all started, like bees in the swarm, 
An' they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm, 
An' they roared, an' they ran, an' they shouted galore; 
But Kathleen and Phaidrick they never saw more. 



AUX ITALIENS. 

At Paris it was, at the opera there ; 

And she looked like a queen in a book that night. 
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, 

And the brooch on her breast so bright. 

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, 
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; 

Aud Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, 
The souls in purgatory. 

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; 

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, 
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, 

Non ti scordar di me? 



108 SELECTIONS. 

The emperor there in his box of state, 
Looked grave; as if he had just then seen 

The red flag wave from the city gate, 
Where his eagles in bronze had been. 

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye: 

You'd have said that her fancy had gone back ngain, 
For one moment, under the old blue sky, 

To the old glad life in Spain. 

Well, there in our front-row box we sat 

Together, my bride betrothed and I; 
My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, 

And hers on the stage hard by. 

And both were silent, and both were sad;-- 
Like a queen, she leaned on her full white arm, 

With that regal, indolent air she had; 
So confident of her charm ! 

I have not a doubt she was thinking then 
Of her former lord, good soul that he was, 

Who died the richest and roundest of men, 
The Marquis of Carabas. 

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, 
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; 

I wish him well for the jointure given 
To my lady of Carabas. 

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love 
As I had not been thinking of aught for years, 

Till over my eyes there began to move 
Something that felt like tears. 

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, 
When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together, 

In that lost land, in that soft clime, 
In the crimson evening weather; 



SELECTIONS. '10!) 

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); 

And her warm white neck in its golden chain; 
And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, 

And falling loose again; 

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast; 

(Oh the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) 
And the one bird singing alone in his nest; 

And the one star over the tower. 

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, 
And the letter that brought me back my ring; 

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, 
Such a very little thing! 

For I thought of her grave below the hill, 
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over: 

And I thought, " Were she only living still, 
How I could forgive her and love her!" 

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, 
And of how, after all, old things are best, 

That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower 
Which she used to wear in her breast. 

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, 

It made me creep, and it made me cold! 
Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet 

Where a mummy is half unrolled. 

And I turned and looked: she was sitting there, 

In a dim box over the stage; and drest 
In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, 

And that jasmine in her breast! 

I was here, and she was there; 

And the glittering horse-shoe curved between : — 
From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair 

And her sumptuous scornful mien, 



110 SELECTIONS. 

To my early love with her eyes downcast, 

And over her primrose face the shade, 
(In short, from the future back to the past,) 

There was but a step to be made. 

To my early love from my future bride 

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, 

I traversed the passage ; and down at her side 
I was sitting, a moment more. 

My thinking of her, or the music's strain, 
Or something that which will never be exprest, 

Had brought her back from the grave again, 
With the jasmine in her breast. 

She is not dead, and she is not wed! 

But she loves me now, and she loved me then; 
And the very first word that her sweet lips said, 

My heart grew youthful again. 

The marchioness there, of Carabas, 

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; 
And but for her .... well, we'll let that pass 

She may marry whomever she will. 

But I will marry my own first love, 

With her primrose face, for old things are best ; 
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above 

The brooch in my lady's breast. 

The world is filled with folly and sin, 
And love must cling where it can, I say: 

For beauty is easy enough to win ; 
But one isn't loved every day. 

And I think in the lives of most women and men, 
There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, 

If only the dead could find out when 
To come back and be forgiven. 



SELECTIONS. Ill 

But oh the smell of that jasmine flower! 

And oh that music i and oh the way 
That voice rang out from the donjon tower, 
Non ti scordar di me, 
Non ti scordar di me J 

Robert Bidwer Lytton. 



MONEY MUSK. 

Ah, the buxom girls that helped the boys — 
The nobler Helens of humbler Troys — 
As they stripped, the husks with rustling fold 
From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold, 

By the candle-light in pumpkin bowls, 
And. the gleams that showed fantastic holes 
In the quaint old lantern's tattoed tin, 
From the hermit glim set up within ; 

By the rarer light in girlish eyes 
As dark as wells or as blue as skies. 
I hear the laugh when the ear is red, 
I see the blush with the forfeit paid, 

The cedar cakes with the ancient twist, 
The cider cups that the girls have kissed. 
And I see the fiddler through the dusk 
As he twangs the ghost of " Money Musk !" 

The boys and girls in a double row 

Wait face to face till the magic bow # 

Shall whip the tune from the violin, 

And the merry pulse of the feet begin. 



112 SELECTIONS. 

In shirt of check, aDd tallowed hair y 
The tiddler sits in the bulrush chair 
Like Moses' basket stranded there 

On the brink of Father Nile. 
He feels the fiddle's slender neck, 
Picks out the notes with thrum and check, 
And times the tune with nod and beck, 

And thinks it a weary while. 
All ready ! Now he gives the call, 
Cries, " Honor to the ladies!" All 
The jolly tides of laughter fall 

And ebb in a happy smile. 

D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string, 
tl First con fie join right hands and swing !" 
As light as any blue-bird's wing 

" Swing once and a half times round /" 
Whirls Mary Martin all in blue — 
Calico gown and stockings new, 
And tinted eyes that tell you true, 

Dance all to the dancing sound. 

She flits about big Moses Brown, 
Who holds her hands to keep her down 
And thinks her hair a golden crown 

And his heart turns over once \ 
His cheek with Mary's breath is wet, 
It gives a second somerset ! 
He means to win the maiden yet, 

Alas, for the awkward dunce \ 

"Your stoga boot has crushed my toe!" 
" I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe !" 
" You clumsy fellow !" " Pass Below!" 
And the first pair dance apart. 



SELECTIONS. 113 

Then "Forward Six/" advance, retreat, 
Like midges gay in sunbeam street 
'Tis Money Mnsk by merry feet 

And the Monkey Musk by heart I 

" Three quarters round your partner swing!" 
" Across the set!" The rafters ring, 
The girls and boys have taken wing 

And have brought their roses out I 
'Tis "Forward six!" with rustic grace, 
Ah, rarer far than — " Swing to place!" 
Than golden clouds of old point-lace 

They bring the dance about. 

Then clasping hands all — " Right and left /" 
All swiftly weave the measure deft 
Across the woof in loving weft 

And the Money Musk is done ! 
Oh, dancers of the rustling husk, 
Good-night, sweethearts, 'tis growing dusk, 
Good-night for aye to Money Musk, 

For the heavy march begun ! 

— Benj. F. Taylor. 



TOM'S LITTLE STAB. 

Sweet Mary, pledged to Tom, was fair 

And graceful, young and slim. 
Tom loved her truly, and one dare 

Be sworn that she loved him ; 
For, twisting bashfully the ring 

That sealed the happy fiat, 
She cooed : " When married in the spring, 

Dear Tom, lets live so quiet ! 



114 SELECTIONS. 

" Lets have our pleasant little place, 

Our books, a friend or two ; 
No noise, no crowd, but just your face 

For me, and mine for you. 
Won't that be nice ?" " It is my own 

Idea," said Tom, " so chary, 
So deep and true, my love has grown, 

I worship you, my Mary." 

She was a tender, nestling thing, 

A girl that loved her home, 
A sort of dove with folded wing, 

A bird not made to roam, 
But gently rest her little claw 

( The simile to carry) 

Within a husband's stronger paw — ■ 
The very girl to marry. 

Their courtship was a summer sea, 

So smooth, so bright, so calm, 
Till one day Mary restlessly 

Endured Tom's circling arm, 
And looked as if she thought or planned, 

Her satin forehead wrinkled, 
She beat a tattoo on his hand, 

Her eyes were strange and twinkled. 

She never heard Tom's fond remarks, 

His " sweety-tweety dear," 
Or noticed once the little larks 

He played to make her hear. 
" What ails," he begged, " my petsy pet ? 

What ails my love, I wonder?" 
" Do not be trifling, Tom. I've met 

Professor Shakspeare Thunder." 



SELECTIONS. 115 

" Thunder!" said Tom ; * and who is he?" 

"You goose! why, don't you know?" 
" I don't. She never frowned at me, 

Or called me ' goose.' And though," 
Thought Tom, -" it may be playfulness, 

It racks my constitution." 
" Why, Thunder teaches with success 

Dramatic elocution." 

"Oh! Ah! Indeed! and what is that? 

My notion is but faint." 
" It's art," said Mary, brisk and pat. 

Tom thought that " art" meant paint. 
"You blundering boy! why, art is just 

What makes one stare and wonder. 
To understand high art you must 

Hear Shakspeare read by Thunder." 

Tom started at the turn of phrase ; 

It sounded like a swear. 
Then Mary said, to his amaze, 

With nasal groan and glare, 
" ' To be or-r — not to be ?' " And fain 

To act discreet yet gallant, 
He asked, "Dear, have you any — pain ?" 

" Oh, no, Tom ; I have talent. 

" Professor Thunder told me so ; 

He sees it in my eye ; 
He says my tones and gestures show 

My destiny is high." 
Said Tom, for Mary's health afraid, 

His ignorance revealing, 
"Is talent, dear, that noise you made? ' 

"Why, no ; that's Hamlet's feeling." 



116 SELECTIONS. 

" He must have felt most dreadful bad." 

" The character is mystic," 
Mary explained, "and very sad, 

And very high artistic. 
And you are not ; you're commonplace : 

These things are far above you." 
"I'm only," spoke Tom's honest face, 

" Artist enough — to love you." 

From that time forth was Mary changed ; 

Her eyes stretched open wide ; 
Her smooth fair hair in friz arranged, 

And parted on the side. 
More and more strange she grew, and quite 

Incapable of taking 
The slightest notice how each night 

She set Tom's poor heart aching. 

As once he left her at the door, 

"A thousand times goodnight," 
Sighed Mary, sweet as ne'er before. 

Poor Tom revived, looked bright. 
" Mary," he said, "you love me so? 

We have not grown asunder ?" 
" Do not be silly, Tom; you know 

I'm studying with Thunder. 

" That's from the famous Juliet scene. 

I'll do another bit." 
Quoth Tom: "I don't know what you mean. 
" Then listen ; this is it: 

' Dear love, adieu. 
Anon, good nurse. Sweet Moutague, be true. 
Stay but a little, I will come again.' 

Now, Tom, say ' Blessed, blessed night!' " 

Said Tom, with hesitation, 
" B-blessed night." " Pshaw! that's not right; 
You've no appreciation." 



SELECTIONS. 117 

At Tom's next call he heard up-stairs 

A laugh most loud and coarse; 
Then Mary, knocking down the chairs, 
Came prancing like a horse. 
" 'Ha! ha! ha! Well, Governor, how are 
ye? I've been down five times, climbing up 
your stairs in my long clothes.' 
That's comedy," she said. "You're mad," 

Said Tom. "'Mad!' Ha! Ophelia! 
' They bore him barefaced on his bier, 
And on his grave rained many a tear,' " 
She chanted, very wild and sad; 
Then whisked off on Emilia : 
" ' You told a lie — an odious, fearful lie. 
Upon my soul, a lie — a wicked lie.' " 

She glared and howled two murder scenes, 

And mouthed a new French role, 
Where luckily the graceful miens 

Hid the disgraceful soul. 
She wept, she danced, she sang, she swore — 

From Shakspeare — classic swearing; 
A wild, abstracted look she wore, 

And round the room went tearing. 

And every word and every pause 

Made Mary " quote a speech." 
If Tom was sad ( and he had cause), 

She'd say, in sobbing screech, 
" ' Clifford, why don't you speak to me?' " 

At flowers for a present 
She leered and sang coquettishly, 
*' ' When daisies pied and violets blue.' " 
Tom blurted, u That's not pleasant." 



1 1 8 SELECTIONS. 

But Mary took offense at this. 

"Yon have no soul," said she, 
" For art, and do not know the bliss 

Of notoriety. 
The ' sacred fire ' they talk about 

Lights all the way before me ; 
It's quite my duty to ' come out/ 

And all my friends implore me- 

"Three months of Thunder I have found 

A thorough course," she said ; 
" I'll clear Parnassus with a bound." 

( Tom softly shook his head.) 
" I cannot fail to be the rage." 

( Tom looked a thousand pities.) 
" And so I'm going on the stage 

To star in Western cities." 

And Mary went; but Mary came 

To grief within a week; 
And in a month she came to Tom, 

Quite gentle, sweet, and meek. 
Tom was rejoiced: his heart was none 

The hardest or the sternest. 
"Oh, Tom," she sobbed, "It looked like fun, 

But art is dreadful earnest. 

" Why, art means work, and slave, and bear 

All sorts of scandal, too ; 
To dread the critics so you dare 

Not look a paper through ; 
Oh, ' art is long' and hard." "And you 

Are short and — soft, my darling." 
"My money, Tom, is gone — it flew? 

" That's natural with a starling." 



SELECTIONS. .1.19 

w I loTe you more than words can say, 

Dear Tom. He gave a start. 
" Mary, is that from any play ?" 

"No, Tom ; it's from my heart." 
He took the tired, sunny head, 

With all its spent ambitions, 
So gently to his breast she said 

No word but sweet permissions. 

w Can you forgive me Tom, for — " " Life," 

He finished out the phrase. 
*' My love, you're patterned for a wife. 

The crowded publiG ways 
Are hard for even the strongest heart; 

Yours beats too softly human. 
However woman choose her art, 

Yet art must choose its woman." 

Fanny Foster, 



THE ROSARY OF MY YEARS. 

Some reckon their ages by years, 
Some measure their life by art — 
But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, 
And their life by the moans of their heart. 

The dials of earth may show 
The length, not the depth of years, 
Few or many they come, few or many they go- 
But our time is best measured by fears. 

Ah ! not by the silver gray 
That creeps through the sunny hair, 
And not by the scenes that we pass on our way- 
And not by the furrows the finger of care 



i^O SELECTIONS. 

On the forehead and face have made — 

Not so do we count our years; 
Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade 
Of our souls — and the fall of our tears. 

For the young are ofttimes old, 
Though their brow be bright and fair; 
While their blood beats warm their heart lies cold— 
O'er them the spring-time, but winter is there. 

And the old are ofttimes young 
When their hair is thin and white, 
And they sing in age as in j^outh they sung, 
And they laugh, for their cross was light. 

But bead by bead I tell 

The rosary of my years; 
From a cross to a cross they lead — 'tis well! 
And they're blessed with a blessing of tears. 

Better a day of strife 

Than a century of sleep; 
Give me instead of a long stream of life, 
The tempest and tears of the deep. 

A thousand joys may foam 

On the billows of all the years; 
But never the foam briugs the brave bark home : 
It reaches the haven through tears. 

Father Ryan, 



THE LITTLE HATCHET STOBY. 

Mrs. Caruthers, of Arch street, wishing to do some 
shopping, left in our experienced charge her little tid 
todler, of five summers. We wished to interest the 



SELECTIONS. \21 

young prodigy, so we thought we would look him up in 
the history of his country. 

''Now, listen, Clarence" — his name was Clarence 
Fitzberbert, Marchemont Alencon de Caruthers— " and 
we will tell you all about George Washington " — 

" Who's he." 

"Why, the 'Father of His Country'." 

"Whose country." 

" Our country — the confederated union of the Ameri- 
can republic— -cemented by the life-blood of the heroes 
of 76." 

" Well, one day, George's father — " 

" George who ? " asked Clarence, 

"George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just 
like you. One day his father—" 

"Whose father?" demanded Clarence, with an en- 
couraging expression of interest. 

"George Washington's; this great man we are telling 
you of. One day George Washington's father gave him 
a little hatchet for a — " 

"Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child inter- 
rupted, with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most 
men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impa- 
tience, but we didn't. We know how to talk to children. 
So we went on: 

" George Washington. His — " 

" Who gave him the little hatchet ? " 

"His father. And his father—" 

"Whose father?" 

" George Washington's." 

"Oh!" 

" Yes, George Washington. And his father told him — ' 

"Told who?" 

" Told George." 

"Oh, yes, George." 



122 SELECTIONS. 

And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you 
could imagine. We took up the story right where the 
boy interrupted, for we could see he was just crazy to 
hear the end of it. We said : 

" And he was told — " 

' l George told him ? " queried Clarence. 

" No, his father told George—" 

"Oh!" 

" Yes; told him he must be careful with the hatchet— 

" Who must be careful ?" 

"George must." 

"Oh!" 

" Yes; must be careful with his hatchet—" 

" What hatchet ? " 

" Why, George's." 

"Oh!" 

"With the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop 
it in the cistern, or leave it o»t in the grass all night. 
So George went round cutting everything he could 
reach with his hatchet. And at last he came to a 
splendid apple-tree, his father's favorite, and cut it down 
and—" 

" Who cut it down ? " 

" George did." 

"Oh!" 

" But his father came home and saw it the first thing 
and — " 

" Saw the hatchet ?" 

" No, saw the apple-tree. And he said, ' Who has cut 
down my favorite apple-tree ?' " 

" What apple-tree ? " 

" George's father's. And everybody said they didn't 
know anything about it, and—" 

"Anything about what?" 

"The apple-tree." 

"Oh!" 



SELECTIONS. 123 

"And George came up and heard them talking 
about it — " 

■' Heard who talking about it ? " 

"Heard his father and the men." 

"What were they talking about?" 

"About this apple tree." 

•"What apple-tree?" 

"The favorite tree that George cut down." 

"George who?" 

"George Washington." 

"Oh!" 

" So George came up and heard them talking about it, 
and he — " 

"What did he cut it down for?" 

"Just to try his little hatchet." 

"Whose little hatchet?" 

" Why, his own, the one his father gave him." 

"Gave who?" 

" Why, George Washington." 

"Oh!" 

" So George came up and he said, ' Father, I cannot 
tell a lie, I—'" 

"Who couldn't tell a lie?" 

"Why, George Washington. He said, 'Father, I can- 
not tell a lie. It was—'" 

"His father couldn't?" 

" Why, no; George couldn't." 

"Oh! George? oh, yes!" 

'"It was I cut down your apple-tree; I did — '" 

"His father did?" 

"No, no; it was George said this." 

'• Said he cut his father? ' 

"No, no, no; said he cut down his apple-tree." 

" George's apple tree? " 

"No, no; his father's." 

"Oh!" 



124 SELECTIONS. 

"He said—" 

" His father said ? " 

" No, no, no ; George said. ' Father, I cannot tell a lie 
I did it with my little hatchet." And his father said: 
* Noble boy, I wonld rather lose a thousand trees than 
have you tell a lie.' " 

" George did ? " 

" No, his father said that." 

" Said he'd rather have a thousand apple-trees ? " . 

"No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple- 
trees than — " 

" Said he'd rather George would? " 

"No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie." 

"Oh! George would rather have his father lie?" 

We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. 
Caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that 
critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington c<uild 
have pulled us out of the snarl. And as Clarence 
Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the 
stairs we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had 
a father named George, and he told him to cut down an 
apple-tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies 
than cut down one apple-tree. 

Burlington Hatvkcyc. 



HOW TOM SAWYEE GOT HIS FENCE WHITE- 
WASHED. 

Tom Sawyer, having offended his sole guardian, Aunt 
Polly, is by that sternly affectionate dame punished by 
being set to whitewash the fence in front of the garden. 

The world seemed like a hollow mockery to Tom, who 
had planned fun for all that day, for he knew he would 



SELECTIONS. 125 

be the laughing stock of all the boys as they came by and 
saw him set to work like a nigger. But a new inspira- 
tion flashed over him, and he went tranquilly to work. 
What that inspiration was will appear from what follows : 
One of the boys, Ben Rogers, passes along, eating a partic- 
ularly fine apple. Ben stared a moment and then said: 

"Hi-j/7 you're a stump, ain't you?" 

No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye 
of an artist; then he gave his brush another gentle 
sweep, and surveyed the result as before. Ben ranged 
up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the 
apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said: "Hello, old 
chap, you got to work, hey?" 

Tom wheeled suddenly and said: 

"Why, it's you, Ben; I warn't noticing." 

" Say, I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish 
you could? But, of course, you'd druther work, wouldn't 
you? Course you would !" 

Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said: 

" What do you call work ?" 

"Why, ain't that work?" 

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered care- 
lessly : 

" Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know i3 
it suits Tom Sawyer." 

" Oh, come now, you don't mean to let on that you like 
it?" 

" Like it ? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. 

Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every 
day?" 

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nib- 
bling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and 
forth — stepped back to note the effect — added a touch 
here and there — criticised the effect again, Ben watching 
every move, and getting more and more interested , more 
and more absorbed. Presently he said : 



1 26 SELECTIONS. 

" Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little," 

Tom considered — was about to consent — but he alter- 
ed his mind. "No, no; I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, 
Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this 
fence — right here on the street, you know — but if it was 
the back fence I would't mind, and she wouldn't. Yes, 
she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done 
very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, 
maybe two thousand, that can do it the way its got to be 
done." 

"No — is that so? Oh, come now, lemme just try, 
only just a little. I'd let vow, if you was me, Tom." 

" Ben, I'd like to, honest Injin ; but Aunt Polly — well, 
Jim wanted to do- it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid 
wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let Sid. Now, don't 
'you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle th"s fence, 
and anything was to happen to it — " 

" Oh, shucks! I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. 
Say — I'll give you the core of my apple." 

" Well, here; No, Ben; now don't; I'm afeard — " 

" I'll give you all of it!" 

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but 
alacrity in his heart. And while Ben worked and sweated 
in the sun the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade 
close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and 
planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no 
lack of material; boys happened along every little while; 
they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the 
time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next 
chance to Billy Fisher for a kite in good repair; and 
when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead 
rat and a string to swing it with; and so on, and so on, 
hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon 
came, from being a poor, poverty-stricken boy in the 
morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had, 



SELECTIONS. 127 

beside the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part 
of a Jew's-harp, a piece of bine bottle-glass to look 
through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock any- 
thing, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decan- 
ter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a 
kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog collar — 
but no dog — the handle of a k nif e, four pieces of orange 
peel, and a dilapidated old window-sash. 

Tom had had a nice, good, idle time all the while - - 
plenty of company and the fence had three coats of 
whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash, he 
would have bankrupted every boy in the village. 

He said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, 
after all. He had discovered a great law of human action 
without knowing it — namely, that in order to make a 
man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make 
it difficult to attain. 

Mark Twain, 



KEENAN'S CHARGE, 

The sun had set ; 

The leaves with dew were wet; 
Down fell a bloody dusk 

On the woods, that second of May, 
When Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey, 

Tore through with angry tusk. 
" They've trapped us, boys!" 

Rose from our ranks a voice, 
With rush of steel and smoke, 

Down came the rebels straights, 
Eager as love and wild as hate; 

And our line reeled and broke \ 



128 SELECTIONS. 

Broke and fled, 

No one staid — but the dead ! 
With curses, shrieks and cries, 

Horses, wagons and men 
Tumbled back through ihe shuddering glen, 

And above us the fading skies. 

There's one hope still, 

Those batteries parked on the hill. 
*' Battery wheel ( r mid the roar ) 

Pass pieces ; fix prolong to fire 
Ketiring. Trot " — and no more. 

The horses plunged, the cannon lurched and lunged 
To join the hopeless route, 

But suddenly rode a form 
Calmly in front of the human storm 

With a stern, commanding shout, 
" Align those guns 1" 

(We knew it was Pleasanton's ) 
The cannoneers bent to obey, 

And worked with a will at his word ; 
And the black guns moved as if they had heard; 

But ah, the dread delay ! 

" To wait is crime ; 

Oh, God! for ten minutes' time!" 
The General looked around, 

There Keenan sat like stone, 
With his three hundred horse alone, 

Less shaken than the ground. 
" Major, your men?" 

" Are soldiers, General." " Then 
Charge, Major, do your best, 

Hold the enemy back at all cost, 
Till my guns are placed ; else the army is lost 

You die to save the rest." 



SELECTIONS. 129 

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, 

Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton's eyes 
For an instant — clear and cool and still, 

Then, with a smile, he said: " I will ! 
Cavalry charge !" Not a man of them shrank, 

Their sharp, full cheer from rank to rank, 
Eose joyously with a willing breath, 

Hose like a greeting hail to death, 
Then forward they sprang and spurred and clashed; 

Shouted the officers, crimsoned sashed ; 
Kode well the men, each brave as his fellow, 

In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; 
And high in the air, with an instinct true, 

Like a bird of war, their pennon flew, 
With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, 

And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, 
And strong brown faces, bravely pale, 

For fear their proud attempt should fail, 
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close, 

On twice ten thousand gallant foes, 
Line after line, the troopers came 

To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame ; 
Rode in, and shot and sabred and fell; 

Nor came one back his wounds to tell, 
"While full in the midst rose Keenan tall 

In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, 
And the circle stroke of his sabre, swung 

Around his head, like a halo there, luminous hung 
Line after line, aye whole platoons 

Struck dead in their saddles of brave dragoons 
By the maddened horses were onward borne, 

And into the vortex flung trampled and torn 
As Keenan fought with his men side by side. 

And so they rode till there were no more to ride; 
But over them now, lying shattered and mute, 

What deep echo rolls; — 'tis the death salute 



130 SELECTIONS. 

From the cannon in place;— for heroes you braved 
Your fate not in vain; the army was saved. 

Over them now — year following year, — 

Over their graves, the pine cones fall; — 
And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre call; 

But they stir not again, — they raise no cheer; . 
They have ceased. But their glory will never cease, 

Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. 
The rush of their charge is resounding still, 

That saved the army at Ohancellorville. 

Lathrop, 



THE PRIDE OF BATTERY B. 

South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river 

lay, 
And over on the wooded height we held their lines at 

bay. 
At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow 

and wan ; 
At last the gunners' pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns 

began. 
When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant 

flood 
Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden 

stood. 
A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed. 
(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often 

dreamed.) 
And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly 

head 
In grave salute. " And who are you ?" at length the ser- 
geant said. 



SELECTIONS. 131 

"And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped 

out, "Who is me? 
Why, don't you know ? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Bat- 
tery B. 
My home ? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma 

are dead; 
And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant 

Ned. 
And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers 

too; 
And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at re- 
view. 
But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have 

their smoke, 
And so they're cross — why, even Ned won't play with me 

and joke. 
And the big colonel said to-day — I hate to hear him 

swear — 
He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yank had over 

there. 
And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns 

were still, 
I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the 

hill 
And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 

' Lone Jack.' 
Please do : when we get some again I'll surely bring it 

back. 
Indeed I will, for Ned — says he, — if I do what I say, 
I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay." 

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard 

her laugh 
As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous 

half. 



132 SELECTIONS. 

To kiss the little mouth stooped ctown a score of grimy 

men, 
Until the sergeant's husky voice said, " ' Tention squad!" 

and then 
We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we 

bid, 
And watched her toddle out of sight — or else 'twas tears 

that hid 
Her tiny form — nor turned about a man, nor spoke a 

word, 
Till after a while a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we 

heard ! 
We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene 

around; 
A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once 

had bound. 

That's all — save when the dawn awoke again the work 

of hell, 
And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming 

missiles fell, 
Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much 

to see 
Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of 

Battery B. 

F. H. Gassaway. 



A BUM BUINED HOME. 

A minister of the gospel once told me one of the most 
thrilling incidents I ever heard in my life. A member of 
his congregation came home for the first time in his life 
intoxicated, and his only boy stood upon the door-steps, 
clapping his hands and exclaiming, "Papa has come 
home!" Papa has come home!" He seized the child 



SELECTIONS. 133 

rudely by the shoulder, swung him around and fell in 
the hall. " Mr. Gough," said my friend, " I passed the 
night in that house. I went out and bared my brow 
that the night air might fall upon it and cool it. I 
walked up and down the hall. There was his child — 
dead; his wife in strong convulsions and he asleep." 
A man thirty years of age asleep with a dead child in his 
house with a blue mark upon its temple, where its little 
head had struck the marble step, and his wife upon the 
brink of the grave. "When he awoke," said the gentle- 
man, "he passed his hands quickly over his face and 
said, ' Where am I— where is my boy?' " You cannot see 
him." "Stand out of my way; I -will see him!" To pre- 
vent confusion, I went to the bedside, and as I turned 
down the sheet and showed him the corpse, he cried, 
' Oh, God ! my boy, my boy !' Two years after that, the 
father was brought from a lunatic asylum to lie beside 
his wife in one grave, and I attended his funeral." The 
minister of the gospel who related these facts to me is 
to-day himself a drunken hostler in a stable in Boston. 
Now tell me what drink will do. There is nothing that 
drink will not do that is not cowardly, debasing and hell- 
ish. It will damn, degrade and embrute everything that 
is bright, glorious and God-like in a human being. 

J. B. Gough, 



A VISIT TO A DEUNKAED. 

A gentleman once requested me to visit the hardest 
case in a certain town. Said the gentleman to me: 
" Mr. Gough, he is a sad brute. When drunk he is a 
perfect demon. He beats his daughter, a girl fourteen 
years of age, with a strap that the shoemakers fasten the 



134 



SELECTION". 



lasts on their knees with. Yet when sober he is kind and 
gentle, loves his children and is tender to his wife. He 
has not been drinking for some days past, and I think if 
you could get at him you might do him some good." I 
said, "I will go." 1 went to the house and knocked at the 
door. He opened it and knew me, for he had been at one 
of my lectures. " Mr. Gough, I believe." " Yes, that is my 
name." "Will you please give me a drink of water ?" "Cer- 
tainly, come in." I went in and sat down. There were 
two children playing upon the floor. I noticed also a 
door opening to a room where, I found afterwards, his 
wife lay sick. He brought the water. I talked about 
the weather, the freshets, the contemplated railroad, 
striving to introduce the subject of temperance, but the 
man seemed determined that I should not, and when. I 
approached the subject, would head me off. Feeling 
somewhat perplexed, I was about leaving, w r hen, noticing 
the children playing upon the floor, said, u You have two 
bright children there, are they yours ?" " Yes, they are 
mine, and they are bright enough." " Do you love your 
children ?" " Certainly, I love my children." '' Well " — 
and I moved towards the door ready to go out if he 
should feel offended— " do you rot think if you gave up 
drink the children would be better off?" "Yes, Mr. 
Gough, if I gave up the drink the children would be 
better off?" " Have you a good wife?" "Yes, sir, as 
good a wife as a man ever had." " Do you love your 
wife ? " " Certainly, I love my wife. It's natural for a 
man to love his wife." ' Well, would you not do any- 
thing you could to please her ? " " Yes, I'm bound to 
please her if I can." " Then if you signed the pledge 
would not that please her?" Springing to his feet he 
exclaimed, " By thunder ! if I signed the pledge the old 
woman would be up and about her business in 
less than a week, sick as she is now." " Then you'll 



SELECTIONS. 135 

sign ?" "I will." He went to his deok and took 
out some ink and an old pen. He sat down 
and — if he did not nourish with his pen he did 
with his tongue — wrote his name. As he laid down his 
pen he said, "There!" The children had stopped in 
their play when we began to speak of temperance. They 
knew what a drunken father was and what the pledge 
would do for them. When he had signed, their eyes 
grew large like saucers, and one of them said to the 
other, " Father has signed the pledge," and the other one 
said, " Oh, now I'll go and tell mother." But the mother 
had been listening and heard it all, and I could hear her 
softly say, " Luke, Luke, come in here, Luke!" " Com e 
in with me," said he, " and see my wife; she would like 
to see you." We went in. The wife lay on the bed and 
looked very pale — her eyes were so large — with one 
bony hand she grasped mine, and with the other that of 
her husband and said: " Luke is a kind husband, a good 
provider — it's only the drink that makes the difficulty." 
The man shook like a leaf. He took his hand from the 
grasp of his wife, tore down her night dress, and point- 
ing to an ugly bruise on her shoulder, said : ''She says I'm 
good! Look there, Mr. Gough, she says I'm good! I did that 
three days before she was taken down sick and she says 
I'm good. God Almighty forgive me for that!" and 
placing his head on the bed clothes he wept like a child. 
She put her hand on his head and said: " Don't cry 
Luke, dear, don't cry. Don't believe him, Mr. Gough, 
it wasn't Luke that struck me, it was the drink. Don't 
cry, Luke; you have signed the pledge and we are all 
right now." When I left that room, if my eyes had been 
dry I should have been ashamed of myself. Two years 
after that I saw them and he had kept his pledge. This is 
one case among thousands, for which I thank my God 
with all my heart to-night. 

J. B. Gough, 



136 



SELECTIONS. 



THE LITTLE HEKO. 
Now, lads, a short yarn I'll just spin you, 

As happened on our very last run,— 
'Bout a boy as a man's soul had in him, 

Or else I'm a son of a gun. 
From Liverpool port out three days, lads; 

The good ship floating over the deep ; 
The skies bright with sunshine above us; 

The waters beneath us asleep. 

Not a bad-tempered lubber among us; 

A jollier crew never sailed, 
'Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage, 

But good seaman as ever was hailed. 

Regulation, good order, his motto; 

Strong as iron, an' steady as quick; 
With a couple of bushy black eyebrows, 

And eyes fierce as those of Old Nick. 

One day he comes up from below, 
A-graspin' a lad by the arm, — 

A poor little ragged young urchin 

As had ought to bin home to his marm. 

An' the mate asks the boy, pretty roughly, 
How he dared for to be stowed away, 

A-cheatin' the owners and captain, 
Sailin', eatin', and all without pay. 

The lad had a face bright and sunny, 
An' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's, 

An' looks up at the scowlin' first mate, lads 
An' shakes back his long, shining curls; 

An' says he in a voice dear and pretty, 
" My step-father brought me aboard, 

And hid me away down the stairs there; 
For to keep me he couldn't afford. 



SELECTIONS. 137 

" And be told me the big ship would take me 

To Halifax town, — oh, so far! 
And he said, ' Now the Lord is your father, 

Who lives where the good angels are.' " 

" It's a lie," says the mate: " not your father, 

But some of these big skulkers near, 
Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor. 

Speak up, tell the truth, d'ye hear?" 

" 'Twarn't us," growled the tars as stood round 'em. 

" What's you age ?" says one of the brine. 
"And your name?" says another old salt fish. 

Says the small chap, " I'm Frank, just turned nine." 

" Oh, my eyes !" says another bronzed seaman 
To the mate, who seemed staggered hisself, 

" Let him go free to old Novy Scoshy, 
And I'll work out his passage myself." 

" Belay!" says the mate: " shut your mouth, man! 

I'll sail this ere craft, bet your life. 
An' I'll fit the lie onto you, somehow, 

As square as a fork fits a knife." 

Then a-knitting his black brows with anger, 

He thumbled the poor slip below ; 
An', says he, " PYaps to-morrow'll change you — 

If it don't, back to England you go." 

I took him some dinner, be sure, mates, — 

Just think, only nine years of age! 
An' next day, just as six bells tolled, 

The mate brings him up from his cage. 

An' he plants him before us amidships, 

His eyes like two coals all a-light ; 
An' he says, through his teeth, mad with passion, 

An' his hand lifted ready to smite, 



138 SELECTION'S. 

"Tell the truth, lad, aDdthen I'll forgive you; 

But the truth I will have. Speak it out. 
It wasn't your father as brought you, 

But some of these men here about." 

Then that pair o' blue eyes, bright and winning, 
Clear and shining with innocent youth, 

Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows; 
An', says he, "Sir, I've told you the truth." 

'Twarn't no use; the mate didn't believe him, 
Though every man else did, aboard. 

With rough hand by the collar he seized him, 
And cried, " You shall hang, by the Lord!" 

An' he snatched his watch out of his pocket, 
Just as if he'd been drawin' a knife. 

" If in ten minutes more you don't speak, lad, 
There's the rope, an' good-bye to your life." 

There ! you never see such a sight, mates, 
As that boy with his bright, pretty face, — 

Proud though, and steady with courage, 
Never thinking of asking for grace. 

Eight minutes went by all in silence. 

Says the mate then, "Speak, lad: say your say. 
His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops, 

He faltering says, " May I pray?" 

I'm a rough and hard old tarpa'lin 

As any "blue-jacket" afloat; 
But the salt water sprung to my eyes, lads, 

And I felt my heart rise in my throat. 

The mate kind o' trembled and shivered, 

And nodded his head in reply; 
And his cheek went all white of a sudden, 

And the hot light was quenched in his eye, 



SELECTIONS. 139 

Though he stood like a figure of marble, 
With his watch tightly grasped in his hand, 

An' the passengers all still around him: 
Ne'er the like was on sea or on land. 

An' the little chap kneels on the deck there, 
An' his hands he clasped over his breast, 

As he must ha' done often at home, lads, 
At night-time, when going to rest. 

And soft come the first words, " Our Father," 

Low and soft from the dear baby lip; 
But, low as they were, heard like trumpet 

By each true man aboard of that ship. 

Every bit of that prayer, mates, he goes through, 

To, " Forever and ever. Amen." 
And for all the bright gold of the Indies, 

I wouldn't ha' heard it again. 

And, says he, when he finished, uprising 

An' lifting his blue eyes above, 
" Dear Lord Jesus, oh, take me to heaven, 

Back again to my own mother's love !" 

For a minute or two, like a magic, 

We stood every man like the dead; 
Then back to the mate's face comes running 

The life-blood again, warm and red. 

Off his feet was that lad sudden lifted, 
And clasped to the mate's rugged breast; 

And his husky voice muttered " God bless you!" 
As his lips to his forehead he pressed. 

If the ship hadn't been a good sailer, 

And gone by herself right along, 
All had gone to Old Davy; for all, lads, 

Was gathered 'round in that throng. 



140 SELECTIONS. 

Like a man, says the mate, " God forgive me, 

That ever I used yon so hard. 
It's myself as had ought to be strung up, 

Taut and sure, to that ugly old yard." 

" You believe me then ?" said the youngster. 

" Believe you!" He kissed him once more. 
" You have laid down your life for tlie truth, lad. 

Believe you! From now, evermore !" 

An' p'r'aps, mates, he wasn't thought much on 
All that day an' the rest of the trip; 

P'r'aps he paid after all for his passage; 
P r'aps he wasn't the pet of the ship. 

An' if that little chap ain't a model, 
For all, young or old, short or tall, 

An' if that ain't the stuff to make men of, 
Old Ben, he knows naught after all. 



THE BLACKSMITH'S STORY. 

Well, no! my wife ain't dead, sir, but I've lost her all the 

same; 
She left me voluntarily, and neither was to blame. 
It's rather a queer story, and I think you will agree, 
When you hear the circumstances, 'twas rather rough 

on me. 

She was a soldier's widow : he was killed at Malvern Hill ; 
And when I married her she seemed to sorrow for him 

still; 
But I brought her here to Kansas, and I never want to 

see 
A better wife than Mary was for five bright years to me. 



SELECTIONS. 141 

The change of scene brought cheerfulness, and soon a 

rosy glow 
Of happiness warmed Mary's cheeks and melted all their 

snow. 
I think she loved me some — I'm bound to think that of 

her, sir; 
And, as for me, I can't begin to tell how I loved her ! 

Three years ago the baby came our humble home to bless, 

And then I reckon I was nigh to perfect happiness; 

'Twas hers — 'twas mine — ; but I've no language to ex- 
plain to you 

How that little girl's weak fingers our hearts together 
drew ! 

Once we watched it through a fever, and w ith each gasp- 
ing breath, 

Dumb with an awful, worldless woe, we waited for its 
death; . 

And, though I'm not a pious man, our souls together 
there, 

For Heaven to spare our darling, went up in voiceless 
prayer. 

And when the doctor said 'twould live, our joy what 

words could tell? 
Clasped in each other's arms, our grateful tears together 

fell. 
Sometimes, you see, the shadow fell across our little nest, 
But it only made the sunshine seem a doubly welcome 

guest. 
Work came to me a plenty, and I kept the anvil ringing; 
Early and late you'd find me there a hammering and 

singing; 
Love nerved my arm to labor and moved my tongue to 

song, 
And though my singing wasn't sweet, it was tremendous 

strong ! 



142 SELECTIONS. 

One day a one-armed stranger stopped to have me nail a 

shoe, 
And while I was at work we passed a compliment or two; 
I asked him how he lost his arm. He said 'twas shot 

away 
At Malvern Hill. " At Mavern Hill ! Did yon know 

Robert May?" 

" That's me," said he. "You, you!' I gasped, choking 
with horrid doubt; 

"If you're the man, just follow me; we'll try this mys- 
tery out!" 

With dizzy steps I led him to Mary. God ! 'twas true ! 

Then the bitterest pangs of misery, unspeakable, I 
knew. 

Frozen with deadly horror, she stared with eyes of 
stone, 

And from her quivering lips there broke one wild, des- 
pairing moan. 

'Twas he ! the husband of her youth, now risen from the 
dead, 

But all too late — and with bitter cry, her senses fled. 

What could be done ? He was reported dead. On his 

return 
He strove in vain some tidings of his absent wife to 

learn. 
'Twas well that he was innocent ! Else I'd 've killed 

him, too, 
So dead he never would have riz till Gabriel's trumpet 

blew! 

It was agreed that Mary then between us should decide, 
And each by her decision would sacredly abide. 
No sinner, at the judgment-seat, waiting eternal doom, 
Could suffer what I did, while waiting sentence in that 
room. 



SELECTIONS. , 143 

Rigid and breathless, there we stood, with nerves as 

tense as steel, 
While Mary's eyes sought each white face, in piteous 

appeal. 
God! could not woman's duty be less hardly reconciled 
Between her lawful husband and the father of her child? 

Ah, how my heart was chilled to ice, when she knelt 

down and said: 
" Forgive me, John ! He is my husband ! Here ! Alive ! 

not dead ! 
I raised her tenderly, and tried to tell her she was right, 
But somehow, in my aching breast, the prisoned words 

stuck tight! 

"But, John, I can't leave baby"— "What! wife and 

child!" cried I; 
" Must I yield all ! Ah, cruel fate ! Better that I should die. 
Think of the long, sad, lonely hours, waiting in gloom 

for me — 
No wife to cheer me with her love — no babe to climb 

my knee ! 

" And yet — you are her mother, and the sacred mother 

love 
Is still the purest, tenderest tie that Heaven ever wove. 
Take her, but promise, Mary — for that will bring no 

shame — 
My little girl shall bear, and learn to lisp her father's 

name!" 

It may be, in the life to come, I'll meet my child and wife ; 
But yonder, by my cottage gate, we parted for this life; 
One long hand-clasp from Mary, and my dream of love 

was done! 
One long embrace from baby, and my happiness was 

S° ne! Frank Olive. 



144 SELECTIONS. 

OEATOE PUFF. 

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, 

The one squeaking thus, and the other down so; 
In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice; 
For one half was B alt, and the rest G below. 
Oh! oh! Orator Puff, 
One voice for an orator's surely enough! 

But he still talked away, spite of coughs and of frowns, 

So distracting all ears with his ufis and his downs, 
That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, 
" My voice is for war;" and asked him, "Which of 
them, pray?" 

Oh! oh! Orator Puff, 

One voice for an orator's surely enough ! 

Reeling homeward one evening, top-heavy with gin, 

And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, 
He tripped near a saw-pit, and tumbled right in, — 
" Sinking fund," the last words as his noddle came 
down. 

Oh! oh! Orator Puff, 

One voice for an orator's surely enough ! 

" Oh, save ! " he exclaimed, in his he-and-she-tones, 
" Help me out ! help me out ! I have broken my 
bones ! " 
" Help you out ? " said a Paddy who passed, " what a 
bother ! 
Why, there's two of you there; can't you help one 
another?" 

Oh! oh! Orator Puff, 

One voice for an orator's surely enough ! 

Thomas Moore. 



/ 

Lee Chadvin's 




SELF-INSTRUCTOR 



^1 



ending attOj^fnj 



"You will make it your business, your study, and your 
pleasure to speak well, if you think right." 

Lord Chef, terfield. 



SAN FRANCISCO: 

Cubeky & Company, Steam Book and Job Printers, 

415 Market Street, below First. 

1884. 





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